" 

•&&*• 


HISTORICAL 


AND 


DESCRIPTIVE 
POEMS. 


JOSHUA   LAX. 


Kitt   - 


• 


HISTORICAL 


AND 


BY 


JOSHUA    LAX. 


WITH    NUMEROUS    EXPLANATORY   AND  OTHER   NOTES, 

AND 
ILLUSTRATED  WITH  PORTRAITS  AND  LOCAL  VIEWS. 


DURHAM:   GEO.    NEASHAM. 
1884. 


Ail 


Dedication. 


TO 
SAMUEL  B.  COXON,  ESQ., 

IN  APPRECIATION  OF  HIS  MANY 
ADMIRABLE  QUALITIES, 

OF  HIS 
ERUDITION,  GOOD  TASTE,  LOVE  OF 

BEAUTY,  AND  ALL  THAT  IS 

TRULY  NOBLE  AND  ELEVATING, 

AND  OF  HIS  CONSTANT  READINESS  TO 

RENDER  A  SERVICE  TO  THE 

GOOD   AND    DESERVING    NEEDY, 

THIS  WORK  IS   HUMBLY  DEDICATED  BY 

THE  AUTHOR, 


Illustrations. 


PORTRAIT  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 

THE  BRIDGE  AT  SHOTLEY. 

SHOTLEY  BRIDGE  IN  1840. 

SHOTLEY  .SPA  WELL. 

PORTRAIT  OF  JOHN  GRAHAM  LOUGH. 

EBCHESTER  CHURCH. 

ROMAN  ALTAR  FOUND  AT  EBCHESTER. 

PORTRAIT  OF  DR.  RENTON. 

NEVILLE'S  CROSS. 

HAMSTERLEY  HALL. 

HANDLEY  CROSS  BRIDGE. 

PORTRAIT  OF  ROBERT  SMITH  SURTEES. 


PREFACE. 


OVID,  in  his  quaint  description  of  the  Temple  of 
Fame,  speaks  of  the  structure  as  being  so  designed 
as  to  reproduce,  in  a  subdued  form,  every  word  spoken 
on  sea  and  shore ;  and  although,  says  the  poet,  the 
place  was  always  filled  with  a  confused  hubbub  of 
low  dying  sounds,  many  of  the  voices  were  spent  and 
worn  before  they  reached  the  rendezvous.  Whether 
the  footfalls  of  the  present  newcomer  will  ever  echo 
in  the  corridors  of  the  far-famed  palace,  it  would, 
perhaps,  be  premature  to  conjecture.  The  writer's 
ambition  does  not  soar  so  high.  He  has  no  pretentions 
to  renown,  nor  is  it  without  feelings  of  diffidence  that 
he  ventures  to  introduce  the  following  pages  to  the 
favour  of  the  public.  It  has  been  said  that  every 
man  has  one  or  more  qualities  which  may  make  him 
useful  both  to  himself  and  others ;  and  if,  in  the  spirit 
of  this  axiom,  the  perusal  of  the  following  pages  serves 
to  heighten  the  pleasure  of  the  passing  hour,  and  fling 
a  loftier  interest  around  the  ever-flowing  stream  of 
human  life,  the  author  seeks  no  nobler  recompense. 
Many  of  the  poems  are  already  well  known  in  West 


XVI  PREFACE. 

Durham,  and  if,  in  their  present  connected  form,  they 
chance  to  merit  a  wider  circulation,  it  is  to  be  hoped 
they  will  satisfy  the  expectations  of  the  stranger,  not 
merely  in  the  variety  of  the  subjects  chosen,  but  in 
purity  of  tone  and  sentiment. 

The  explanatory  footnotes  attached  to  some  of  the 
longer  poems  will  perhaps  recall  not  a  few  favourite 
incidents  and  half-forgotten  legends,  which  may  tend 
to  enhance  the  interest  and  usefulness  of  the  work. 

My  very  cordial  and  sincere  thanks  are  due  to  the 
printer  and  publisher,  who  has  been  of  untold  value 
to  me  in  the  dual  capacity  of  councillor  and  friend. 

JOSHUA  LAX. 

Shotley  Bridge,  March,  1884. 


Xist  of  Subscribers. 


H 

Adamson,  Mr.  Matthew,  Burnopfield,  i  copy. 

Addison,  Mr.  J.  T.,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 

Ainsworth,  Mr.  G.,  Westbank,  Consett,  i  copy. 

Allendale  Cottages,  The  Working  Men's  Reading  Room,  i  copy. 

Allison,  Mr.,  Hamsterley  Mill,  Lintz  Green,  i  copy. 

Amos,  Mr.  Joseph,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 

Anderson,  Mr.  James,  Black  Hedley,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 

Anderson,  Mr.  John,  woodman,  Mosswood,  i  copy. 

Annandale,  W.  M.,  Esq.,  Lintz  Ford,  Lintz  Green,  i  copy. 

Annandale,  James,  Esq.,  J.P.,  The  Briary,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 

Annandale,  Miss,  Shotley  Grove,  Shotley  Bridge,  2  copies. 

Appleby,  Mr.  Wm.,  Leazes,  Burnopfield,  i  copy. 

Appleton,  Mr.  John  Reed,  F.S.A.,  Western  Hill,  Durham,  i  copy. 

Archbold,  Mrs.,  Sydenham  Terrace,  Newcastle-on-Tyne,  i  copy. 

Arkless,  Mr.  John,  Tantobie,  i  copy. 

Armstrong,  Mr.  Stephen,  Holly  Lodge,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 

Armstrong,  Mr.  Roger,  Hamsterley  Hall,  Lintz  Green,  i  copy. 

Atkinson,  Mr.  Robert,  Shakespere  Terrace,  Sunderland,  i  copy. 

Atkinson,  Mr.,  Low  Hermitage  Farm,  Satley,  Darlington,  i  copy. 

Aynsley,  Mr.  William,  Consett,  i  copy. 

to 

Bainbridge,  Mr.  T.  H.,  Market  Street,  Newcastle-on-Tyne,  i  copy. 

Bailie,  Rev.  Alexander,  The  Manse,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 

Baitey,  Rev.  Wm.,  4,  Sutton  Street,.  Durham,  i  copy. 

Bancroft  &   Fawthorp,    Messrs.,    brush    manufacturers,    Halifax, 

Yorks.,  2  copies. 

Barmby,  Rev.  James,  Vicar  of  Pittington,  Durham,  2  copies. 
Barclay,  Mr.  R.  G.,  Cauldwell,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Barker,  Mr.  G.  C.,  Derwent  Cote,  Lintz  Green,  i  copy. 
Barnes,  Chas.  E.,  Esq.,  Western  Hill,  Durham,  i  copy. 
Barrass,   Mr.   Alexander,   7,   Loadman  Street,   Scots  wood   Road, 

Newcastle-on-Tyne,  i  copy. 

Barren,  Mr.  Cuthbert,  Benfieldside  Edge  Road,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 
Bates,  Mr.  J.,  watchmaker,  West  Stanley,  Chester-le-Street,  i  copy. 
Batey,  Isaac,  Esq.,  Hexham,  i  copy. 
Baynes,  Mr.  C.,  Snow's  Green,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 


XVlii  SUBSCRIBERS     NAMES. 

Beckwith,  Rev.  J.  S.,  M.A.,  Walker  Vicarage,  Newcastle,  i  copy. 
Bell,  Mr.  Joseph,  Swiss  Cottage,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Bell,  Mr.  H.,  Edmondbyers,  i  copy. 
Bell,  Mr.  T.,  14,  Wood  Street,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Bell,  Mr.  Wilson/ Baybridge,  Blanchland,  i  copy. 
Belt,  Messrs.  Geo.  &  Sons,  23,  Groat  Market,  Newcastle,  i  copy. 
Benson,  Mr.  R.  S.,  Benfieldside  Edge  Road,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 
Bennett,  Mr.  J.  R.,  Northumberland  Street,  Newcastle,  i  copy. 
Bernasconi,  Mr.  A.,  41,  Dean  Street,  Newcastle-on-Tyne,  i  copy. 
Best,  Mr.  F.,  police  constable,  Westwood,  i  copy. 
Beeley,  Mr.  Henry,  5,  Summer  Place,  Kidderminster,  i  copy. 
Black,  Messrs.  &  Sons,  Sea  View  Works,  Berwick,  i  copy. 
Blackhill  Mechanics'  Institute,  i  copy. 
Boag,  Mr.  Hugh,  Shotley  Hall,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Bolton,  W.  T.,  Esq.,  M.D.,  Prospect  House,  Ebchester,  i  copy. 
Bolton,  Mrs.,  White  House  Road,  Sunderland,  i  copy. 
Bowmaker,  Mr.  E.,  10,  Beauclarc  Terrace,  Sunderland,  i  copy. 
Bowey,  Mr.  John,  Castleside,  i  copy. 
Booth,  John,  Esq.,  Summerdale,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Brady,  Mr.  Wm.,  4,  Eltringham  Street,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 
Bramley,  Mr.  Joseph,  Ebchester,  i  copy. 
Brears,  Mr.  W.,  Redwell  Hills,  Leadgate,  i  copy. 
Brewis,  Mr.  Wm.,  Newlands  Grange,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 
Britton,  Mr.  Geo.,  Friargate,  New  Scarborough,  Wakefield,  i  copy. 
Brotherhood,  Mr.  W.,  Lanchester,  i  copy. 
Brodie,  Mr.  John,  Front  Street,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Brodie,  Mr.  Adam,  Town  Hall,  Consett,  i  copy. 
Brooks,  John  C.,  Esq.,  14,  Lovaine  Place,  Newcastle,  i  copy. 
Brooks,  Miss,  Workhouse,  Lanchester,  i  copy. 
Brown,  Mr.  N.,  Front  Street,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Brown,  Mr.  Thomas,  Front  Street,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Brown,  Mr.  Wm.,  mason,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Brown,  Mr.  Geo.,  Wood  Street,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Brown,  Mr.  Joseph,  6,  Rose  Mount,  Consett,  i  copy. 
Brown,  Mr.  Peter,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Brown,  Mr.  Ralph,  Baxton  Burn,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 
Brown,  Mr.  Jno.,  Little  Black  Hedley,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 
Brown,  Mrs.  D.  A.,  Pittington,  Durham,  i  copy. 
Bruce,  Mr.  Thomas,  Green  Street,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
.Bruce,  Mr.  Thos.,  3,  Green  Street,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Bryson,  Rev.  D.,  Shadforth,  Durham,  i  copy. 
Buckham,  Mr.  John,  Lanchester,  i  copy. 
Buckham,  Mr.  George,  Lanchester,  i  copy. 
Bullock,  Mr.  Jno.,  gardener,  Snow's  Green,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 


SUBSCRIBERS     NAMES.  XIX 

Bulman,  Mr.  Thomos,  Birkhott,  Muggleswick,  i  copy. 
Burdess,  Mr.  Thos.,  31,  Thomas  Street,  Monkwearmouth,  i  copy. 
Burdess,  Mr.  Ed.,  Dock  Street  East,  Monkwearmouth,  i  copy. 
Burton,  Mr.  Eli,  Poplar  House,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Bushby,  Mr.  Matthew,  Blackhall  Mill,  Lintz  Green,  i  copy. 
Byers,  Mr.  H.  (Nicholson  &  Co.),  Pilgrim  Street,  Newcastle,  2  copies. 


Cain,  J.  C.,  Esq.,  Woodbine  Villa,  Gateshead,  i  copy. 

Carr,  J.  Rodham,  Esq.,  LL.D.,  Carr  Stones,  Wolsingham,  i  copy. 

Calvert,  Mr.  John,  Sherburn  House,  Consett,  i  copy. 

Campbell,  Mr.  J.  W.,  Fawcett  Street,  Sunderland,  i  copy. 

Campbell,  Rev.  Edward,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 

Campbell,  Mr.  W.,  Jun.,  16,  Blandford  Street,  Sunderland,  i  copy. 

Campbell,  Mr.  W.,  Front  Street,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 

Campbell,  Rev.  A.,  Front  Street,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 

Carr,  M.,  Esq.,  Ebchester  Hall,  Ebchester,  2  copies. 

Carr,  Mr.  Jas.  D.,  Sunniside,  Tow  Law,  i  copy. 

Carruthers,  Mr.  John,  Castleside,  i  copy. 

Cawthorne,  Mr.  Ed.  P.,  butcher,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 

Chapman,  Miss  Emma,  Shotley  House,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 

Charlton,  Mr.  William,  Burnopfield,  i  copy. 

Charlton,  Mr.  Thos.,  timber  merchant,  Burnopfield,  i  copy. 

Charlton,  Mr.  W.,  Dene  House,  Ebchester,  i  copy. 

Charlton,  Mr.  Thos.,  Snow's  Green  Road,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 

Charlton,  Mr.  John,  High  Waskerley,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 

Chaytor,  Mr.  R.,  Hamsterley  Colliery,  Ebchester,  i  copy. 

Cheesman,  Mr.  W.,  Iveston,  i  copy. 

Cherry,  Miss,  Crossgate,  Durham,  i  copy. 

Cheyne,  Mr.  James,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 

Chisholm,  Mr.  J.,  engineer,  North  Skelton  Mines,  Saltburn,  i  copy. 

Christopher,  Mrs.,  North-Eastern  Hotel,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 

Christopher,  Mr.  John,  Durham  Road,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 

Cochrane,  Brodie,  Esq.,  Aldin  Grange,  i  copy. 

Cockin,  Rev.  W.,  M.A.,  Vicar  of  Medomsley,  2  copies. 

Clark,  Robert,  Esq.,  Lintz  Green  House,  Lintz  Green,  i  copy. 

Close,  Mr.  John,  Medomsley,  i  copy. 

Collinson,  Mr.  John,  Grove  Schools,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 

Collinson,  Mr.  John,  Consett,  i  copy. 

Collinson,  Mr.  George  W.,  Salem  Street  P.O.,  Sunderland,  i  copy. 

Coulson,  Mr.  T.,  Benfieldside  Edge  Road,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 

Coulson,  Mr.  Thomas,  Birtley,  Chester-le-Street,  i  copy. 

Coulson,  Mr.  Joseph,  Front  Street,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 

Cook,  Mr.  John  G.,  9,  Cort  Street,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 


xx  SUBSCRIBERS'  NAMES. 

Cook,  Mr.  John,  3,  Ledger  Terrace,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 
Coupland,  Mr.  M.,  Westwood  House,  Ebchester,  i  copy. 
Cowen,  Jos.,  Esq.,  M.P.,  23,  Onslow  Square,,  London,  S.W.,  i  copy. 
Coxon,  S.  B.,  Esq.,   7,  Westminster  Chambers,  Victoria  Street, 

Westminster,  London,  12  copies. 
Coxon,  Mr.  Ed.,  Cutlers'  Hall  Road,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 
Cranston,  Mr.  R.,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Crow,  A.  T.,  Jun.,  Esq.,  Belle  Vue  Park,  Sunderland,  i  copy. 
Cruickshank,  Mr.  Alexander,^  2,  Union  [Street,  Wallsend,  i  copy. 
Gumming,  Mr.  John,  Langley  West  House,  Langley  Park,  i  copy. 
Currie  &  Hutchinson,  Messrs.,  chemists,  Side,  Newcastle,  i  copy. 
Curry,  Mr.  J.  T.,  Delves  Lane,  Consett,  i  copy. 
Curtis  &  Harvey,  Messrs.,  74,  Lombard  St.,  London,  E.G.,  i  copy. 
Cuthbertson,  Rev.  James,  2,  Esk  Terrace,  Whitby,  i  copy. 

B 

Davey,  Mr.  Wm.,  Snow's  Green,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 

Davison,  Mr.  J.  W.,  ironmonger,  Consett,  i  copy. 

Davison,  Mr.  Charles,  Front  Street,  Consett,  i  copy. 

De  Pledge,  Rev.  J.  P.,  M.A.,  Satley,  i  copy. 

Dickinson,   Robert,   Esq.,  J.P.,   Shotley  House,  Shotley  Bridge, 

i  copy. 

Dickinson,  Mrs.,  Belle  Vue  House,  Shotley  Bridge,  2  copies. 
Dickinson,  Mrs.  W.  R.,  Priestfield  Lodge,  Lintz  Green,  i  copy. 
Dickinson,  William,  Esq.,  The  Villa,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Dixon,  Mr.  John,  Benfieldside  Edge  Road,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 
Dixon,  Mr.  Robert,  Shotley  Estate,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Dixon,  Mr.  Robert,  Broad  Oak,  Ebchester,  i  copy. 
Dixon,  Mr.  Edward,  Ebchester  Mill,  Ebchester,  i  copy. 
Dixon,  Mr.  Jos.,  15,   Barrington  Terrace,   Hetton-le-Hole,   Fence 

Houses,  i  copy. 

Dixon,  Mr.  Andrew,  Apperley,  Stocksfield,  i  copy. 
Dixon,  Mr.  William,  The  Lodge,  Lanchester,  i  copy. 
Dixon,  Mr.  John,  Littletown  Farm,  Durham,  i  copy. 
Dobson,  Mr.  Henry,  The  Briary,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Dodd,  Mr.  H.,  Rokeby  Villa,  Durham,  i  copy. 
Douglas,  Mr.  James,  Co-operative  Store,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Douglas,  Chas.  D.  &  Co.,  15,  Queenhithe,  Upper  Thames  Street, 

London,  i  copy. 

Douglass,  Rev.  Wm.,  Hawthorn  Cottage,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Dowson,  Mr.  Jacob,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 
Duncan,  Mr.  Wm.,  editor  Durham  Chronicle,  i  copy. 
Dunn,  Mr.  Thomas,  Lanchester,  i  copy. 


SUBSCRIBERS'  NAMES.  xxi 

Drummond,  Mr.  John,  Hole  House,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 
Drummond,  Mr.  John,  Kiln  Pit  Hill,  Riding  Mill,  i  copy. 

B 

East,  J.  G.,  Esq.,  Dunster  House,  Durham,  i  copy. 

Eden,  Mr.  Geo.,  merchant  tailor,  West  Street,  Gateshead,  i  copy. 

Egdell,  Mr.  J.  J.,  116,  Northumberland  Street,  Newcastle-on-Tyne, 
i  copy. 

Eltringham,  Mr.  Joseph,  Benfieldside,  2  copies. 

Eltringham,  Mr.  W.,  Highgate,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 

Eltringham,  Mr.  G.,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 

Elliott,  Rev.  T.,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 

Elliott,  Mr.  William,  assistant  overseer,  Consett,  2  copies. 

Elliott,  Mr.  Jos.  F.,  St.  Ives'  Road,  Leadgate,  i  copy. 

Elsdon,  Mr.  M.,  Ebchester,  i  copy. 

England,  Mr.  John  B.,  Derwent  Cote  Farm,  i  copy. 

Erskine,  Mr.  Geo.  H.,  15,  Adelaide  Terrace,  New  Benwell,  New- 
castle-on-Tyne, i  copy. 


Fairley,  Jas.,  Esq.,  Craghead,  Chester-le-Street,  2  copies. 

Fairlamb,  Mr.  J.  O.,  Cutlers'  Hall,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 

Fairlamb,  Mr.  John,  7,  Cutlers'  Hall  Road,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 

Fairlamb,  Mr.  Thomas,  8,  Cutlers'  Hall  Road,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 

Farrar,  Rev.  Wesley,  M.A.,  The  Vicarage,  Castleside,  i  copy. 

Farrar,  Rev.  H.  W.,  Chaplain  Tyne  Mission  Ship,  South  Shields, 
i  copy. 

Fawcett,  Mr.  John,  100,  Tynemouth  Road,  Heaton,  Newcastle, 
i  copy. 

Featherstonehaugh,  Rev.  W.,  M.A.,  Edmondbyers,  i  copy. 

Pewster,  Mr.  Anthony,  Newlands,  Ebchester,  i  copy. 

Finlayson,  Bousfield  &  Co.,  Messrs.,  thread  manufacturers,  John- 
stone,  Renfrewshire,  2  copies. 

Fitzpatrick,  Mr.  S.  J.,  Bridge  Hill,  i  copy. 

Fleming,  P.  R.  &  Co.,  29,  Argyle  Street,  Glasgow,  i  copy. 

Forster,  Miss  E.  A.,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 

Forster,  Mr.  John,  builder,  Medomsley,  i  copy. 

Forster,  Mr.  J.  W.,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 

Forster,  Mr.  George,  police-constable,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 

Fowler,  James,  Esq.,  Mayor  of  Durham,  i  copy. 

Frankland,  Mr.  Rd.,  4,  Cross  Derwent  Street,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 

Frankland,  Mr.  Michael,  Derwent  Street,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 


xxii  SUBSCRIBERS'  NAMES. 

French,  Mr.  W.,  Fore  Street,  Hexham,  i  copy. 

$ 

Galloway,  Mr.  W.,  Bensham  Tower,  Gateshead,  2  copies. 
Gibson,  Mr.  Michael,  Edge  Road,  Benfieldside,  i  copy. 
Gilchrist,  Mr.  James,  Longfield  House,  Marley  Hill,  i  copy. 
Gilmour,  John,  Esq.,  Llwynypia,  near  Pontypridd,  So.  Wales,  i  copy. 
Gledstone,  Mr.  T.  L.,  North-Eastern  Bank,  Consett,  i  copy. 
Gledstone,  Rev.  J.  P.,  63,  Upper  Tulse  Hill,  London,  S.W.,  i  copy. 
Gledstone,  Mr.  John,  Blackwell,  Darlington,  i  copy. 
Golightly,  Elizabeth,  Springfield,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Gourley,  Rev.  G.  M.,  Vicar  of  Blanchland,  i  copy. 
Green,  Mr.  William,  Mare  Burn  Cottage,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 
Green,  Mrs.,  grocer,  Lanchester,  i  copy. 
Greenwell,  Rev.  Wm.,  M.A.,  D.C.L.,  F.S.A.,  Durham,  i  copy. 
Gregson,  W.,  Esq.,  Baldersby,  Thirsk,  i  copy. 
Gribbens,  Mr.  John,  Greenwood,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Ground,  Mr.  Wm.,  Derwent  House,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Guthrie,  Mr.  John,  Shotley  Grove,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 


Hall,  Mr.  Ralph,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 

Hall,  Mr.  Jesse,  Market  Street,  Consett,  2  copies. 

Hall,  Mr.  Robert,  Baxton  Burn,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 

Hallatt,  Mr.  C.,  206,  Bradford  Street,  Birmingham,  i  copy. 

Handcock,  Mr.,  Barcus  Close,  Lintz  Green,  i  copy. 

Harker,  Mr.,  Consett  Station,  i  copy. 

Hardy,  Miss,  Front  Street,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 

Harris,  Mr.  Daniel,  draper,  Spen,  Lintz  Green,  i  copy. 

Harrison,  Mr.  George,  Front  Street,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 

Harrison,  Mr.  Thomas,  Front  Street,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 

Harrison,  Mr.  J.,  Sherburn  Colliery  Station,  Durham,  i  copy. 

Hawdon,  Mr.  George,  Consett,  i  copy. 

Hedley,  Geo.,  Esq.,  J.P.,  Burnhopeside  Hall,  Lanchester,  i  copy. 

Hedley,  W.  H.,  Esq.,  Manor  House,  Medomsley,  i  copy. 

Henderson,  Mr.  Richard,  Ebchester,  i  copy. 

Heppell,  Mr.  Wm.,  Espershiels,  Riding  Mill,  i  copy. 

Heymer,  Mr.  John,  Benfieldside,  4  copies. 

Hobson,  Mr.  George,  Harperley  Mills,  Lintz  Green,  i  copy. 

Hodges,  Mr.  Charles  C.,  Hexham,  i  copy. 

Hodgson,  Mr.  Thomas,  draper,  Blackhill,  3  copies. 

Hodgson,  J.  W.,  Esq.,  Bradley  Lodge,  Dipton,  i  copy. 


SUBSCRIBERS'  NAMES.  xxiii 

Hogg,  Mr.  W.,  42,  Westwood,  i  copy. 

Hooppell,  Rev.  R.  E.,  M.A.,  LL.D.,  Byers  Green  Rectory,  i  copy. 

Hopper,  Dr.,  Dempsterville,  Felling-on-Tyne,  i  copy. 

Hopper,  Mr.  Robert,  Chronicle  Office,  Durham,  i  copy. 

Houliston,  Mr.  A.,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 

Howie,  Mr.  W.  J.,  53,  Derwent  Street,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 

Howie,  Mr.  Thomas,  Waterworks,  West  Hartlepool,  i  copy. 

Hudspith,  Mr.  Dickson,  Carterway  Head,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 

Hull,  Mr.  Matthew,  9,  Cutlers'  Hall,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 

Humble,  Mr.,  Newcastle-on-Tyne,  i  copy. 

Hunt,  Mr.  George,  Shotley  House,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 

Hunter,  Miss,  Derwent  Villa,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 

Hunter,  Mr.  E.  H.,  Derwent  House,  Seaham  Harbour,  i  copy. 

Hunter,  Miss,  Haswell  Lane,  Fence  Houses,  i  copy. 

Hunter,  Mr.  John  G.,  Littletown  Farm,  Durham,  i  copy. 

Huntley,  Mr.  Joseph,  24,  Derby  Street,  Sunderland,  i  copy. 

Hutchinson,  Mr.  T.,  Blanchland,  i  copy. 

Hyden,  Mr.  G.  T.,  Sherburn  Terrace,  Consett,  i  copy. 


Imrie,  Mr.  David,  i,  Tin  Mill  Place,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 
Ingles,  Mr.  James,  146,  Manchester  Road,  Warrington,  i  copy. 
Irving,  Mr.  Thomas,  Westwood  Farm,  Ebchester,  i  copy. 


Jackson,  Mr.  Robert,  Guardian  Office,  Consett,  i  copy.  " 

James,  Walter  H.,   Esq.,  M.P.,  6,  Whitehall  Gardens,  London,  i 

copy. 

Jamieson,  Mrs.,  Durham  Road,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 
Jenkins,  W.,  Esq.,  J.P.,  Consett  Hall,  Consett,  4  copies. 
Jenkins,  Rev.  E.  W.,  Carey  Cottage,  Blackhill,  2  copies. 
Jewers,  Mr.  John,  Benfieldside  Edge  Road,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Jewitt,  Mr.  Robson,  Castleside,  i  copy. 
Johnson,  Mr.  Ed.,  26,  Wood  Street,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Johnson,  Mr.  Wm.,  Unthank,  Kiln  Pit  Hill,  Riding  Mill,  i  copy. 
Johnson,  Mr.  Geo.,  Benfieldside  Edge  Road,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 
Johnstone,  Mr.  Thomas,  24,  Cort  Street,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 
Jones,  Dr.,  Court  House,  Toypany,  Glamorganshire,  i  copy. 


Kirsopp,  Mr.  John,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 


XXIV  SUBSCRIBERS     NAMES. 

Kitching  Bros.,  Messrs.,  Kingston  Brush  Works,  Hull,  i  copy. 
Kidd,  Mr.  John,  6,  Mount  Pleasant,  Consett,  2  copies. 
Kyle,  Mr.  Robert,  Crookgate,  Burnopfield,  i  copy. 
Kirkup,  Mr.  John,  Consett  Station,  i  copy. 
Kearney,  Rev.  Canon,  The  Brooms,  Leadgate,  i  copy. 
Keenleyside,  Mr.,  Crook  Hall,  Consett,  i  copy. 
Kane,  Mr.  J.  J.,  2,  Princess  Street,  Gateshead,  i  copy. 
Kirkup,  Mr.  J.  S.,  Stanifordam,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 


Laidlaw,  Messrs.  R.  and  Sons,  Manor  Chare,   Newcastle-on-Tyne, 

i  copy. 

Lamb,  Mr.  Henry,  Ledger  Terrace,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 
Lamb,  Mr.  Richard,  Belle  Vue,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Lammonby,  Mr.  Thomas,  Leadgate,  i  copy. 
Latimer,  Richard,  Esq.,  Whitley,  Newcastle-on-Tyne,  2  copies. 
Latimer,  Rev.  A.,  Loftus-in-Cleveland,  Yorkshire,  i  copy. 
Laws,  Messrs.  J.  &  Co.,  Rae  Street,  Glasgow,  i  copy. 
Lax,  Mr.  William,  Llwynypia  House,  Pontypridd,  Glamorganshire, 

i  copy. 

Lax,  Mr.  Prosser,  Jacksonville,  Illinois,  U.S.A.,  i  copy. 
Lax,  Miss  V.  V.,  Jacksonville,  Illinois,  U.S.A.,  i  copy. 
Lax,  Mr.  Edward  C.,  Jacksonville,  Illinois,  U.S.A.,  2  copies. 
Lax,  Mr.  Newark,  Jacksonville,  Illinois,  U.S.A.,  i  copy. 
Lazenby,  Mr.  J.  B.,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Leadbitter,  Mr.  James,  22,  Cutlers'  Hall,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 
Le  Keux,  Mrs.,  Old  Elvet,  Durham,  i  copy. 
Leslie,  Mr.  John,  Post  Office,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Leslie,  Mr.   Surtees,  99,   Mantua  Street,   Falcon  Lane,  Battersea, 

London,  S.W.,  i  copy. 

Leslie,  Mr.  Urwin,  Post  Office,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Leslie,  Miss,  Post  Office,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Leybourne,  Miss  Lizzie,  Margery  Flatts,  Lanchester,  i  copy. 
Leybourne,  Mr.  S.,  Derwent  Hill,  i  copy. 
Leybourne,  Mr.  S.,  Jun.,  Front  Street,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Leybourne,  Mrs.  Geo.,  Castleside,  i  copy. 
Lilburn,  Chas.,  Esq.,  Glenside,  Sunderland,  i  copy. 
Lisle,  Mr.  John,  Front  Street,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Lisle,  Mr.  Ralph,  Wood  Street,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Littlefair,  Mr.  William,  Lanchester,  i  copy. 
Locke,  Blackett  &  Co.,  Messrs.,  Newcastle-on-Tyne,  i  copy. 
Lockhart,  Louis  C.,  Esq.,  Hexham,  i  copy. 
Lockwood,  Mr.  Joseph,  Spital  Hill,  Sheffield,  i  copy. 


SUBSCRIBERS'  NAMES.  xxv 

Logan,  William,  Esq.,  Stobbilee  House,  Langley  Park,  Durham, 

i  copy. 

Longstaff,  Miss,  Pierremont  Crescent,  Darlington,  i  copy. 
Longstaffe,  Mr.  S.  F.,  F.R.H.S.,  Norton,  i  copy. 
Lough,  Mrs.,  42,  Harewood  Square,  London,  N.W. 
Lough,  Mr.  Wm.,  blacksmith,  Consett,  i  copy. 
Lowery,  Mr.  Robert,  High  Pittington,. Durham,  i  copy. 
Lowery,  Mr.  R.  A.,  High  Pittington,  Durham,  i  copy. 
Lovett,  Mr.  James,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 
Lucas,  Mrs.,  Amberley  Street,  Sunderland,  5  copies. 
Lumsden,  Mr.  J.  P.,  Lockerbie,  Dumfriesshire,  i  copy. 

/ID 

Macdonald,  Mr.  John,  Cutlers'  Hall,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 
Mackey,  Mr.  W.,  Benfieldside,  i  copy. 
Mackey,  Mr.  Thomas,  Benfieldside,  i  copy. 
Mackey,  Mr.  John,  Highgate,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 
Maclauchlan,  Mr.  Hugh  S.,  14,  Buckingham  Street,  Adelphi,  Lon- 
don, W.C.,  i  copy. 

Makepeace,  Mr.  J.  N.,  Institute  Terrace,  Crook,  i  copy. 
Marley,  T.  E.  F.,  Esq.,  Fell  Mount,  Ulverston,  i  copy. 
Marshall,  Mr.  Robert,  Highgate,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 
Marston,  Mr.  H.  C.,  Ross's  Hotel,  Edinbrough,  3  copies. 
Mason,  Mr.  George,  19,  Foundry  Road,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 
Maxwell,  J.  A.  H.,  Shotley  Bridge  Station,  i  copy. 
McColvin,  Mr.  Colin  Campbell,  Newmarket  Street,  Consett,  i  copy 
Mclntosh,  Mr.  Duncan,  Snow's  Green,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
McKeeth,  Mr.  John,  Villiers  Street,  Sunderland,  i  copy. 
McKeeth,  Mr.  J.  F.,  Villiers  Street,  Sunderland,  2  copies. 
McLauchlin,  Miss,  Lanchester,  i  copy. 
McPherson,  Mr.  Allan,  grocer,  Tantobie,  i  copy. 
Meadows,  Miss  Susan,  Shotley  House,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Menham,  Mr.  Michael,  Hendon  Old  Station,  Sunderland,  i  copy. 
Mctcalf,  Mr.  W.,  Broxbourne  Terrace,  Sunderland,  i  copy. 
Metcalf,  Mr.  Henry,  Fawcett  Street,  Sunderland,  i  copy. 
Mewes,  Mr.  John,  Jun.,  21,  Durham  Road,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 
Milburn,  Mr.  John,  Belford,  Northumberland,  i  copy. 
Mitchinson,  Robert,  Esq.,  Catchgate  House,  i  copy. 
Moffatt,  Mr.  J.  S.,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Mole,  Mr.  Anthony,  94,  Park  Road,  Newcastle-on-Tyne,  i  copy. 
Mold,  Miss  S.,  Shotley  House,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Monks,  Col.,  Aden  Cottage,  Durham,  i  copy. 
Moody,  Mr.  B.,  Ebchester,  i  copy. 


xxvi  SUBSCRIBERS'  NAMES. 

Moody,  Mr.  George,  Ebchester,  i  copy. 

Moon,  Mr.  John,  Cemetery  Road,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 

Moore,  Mr.  Wm.  John,  29,  Wood  Street,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 

Moore,  Mr.  William,  Ashlield,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 

Moore,  Mr.  William,  Bridge  End,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 

Morgan,  Mr.  Nicholas,  7,  Salem  Hill,  Snnderland,  i  copy. 

Mosley,  Mr.  Charles,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 

Muir,  Mr.  John  Taylor,  20,  Bessemer  Street,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 

Muir,  Rev.  Joseph,  Benfieldside  Edge  Road,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 

Mullen,  Mr.  John,  Pilgrim  Street,  Newcastle-on-Tyne,  i  copy. 

Murray,  D.  W.,  Esq.,  Jesmond  Park,  Newcastle-on-Tyne,  i  copy. 

Murray,  Mr.  Richard,  Benfieldside  House,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 

Murray,  Mr.  J.  S.,  Umguni  House,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 

Murray,  Mr.  John  G.,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 

Muse,  Mr.  J.  T.,  Castleside  House,  i  copy. 


Neasham,  Mr.,  Middlesbro',  i  copy. 

Neilson,  Mr.  John  S.,  10,  Egerton  Street,  Sunderland,  i  copy. 

Nelson,  Mr.  Wm.,  74,  Arundel  Street,  Sheffield,  2  copies. 

Nicholson,  Mr.  C.  W.,  Baxton  Burn,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 

Nicholson,  Mr.  F.  C.,  46,  Dunn  Street,  Newcastle,  i  copy. 

Nicholson,  Mr.  George,  Leadgate,  i  copy. 

Nicholson,  Mr.  John,  Otterburn  Terrace,  Newcastle,  4  copies. 

Nixon,  Mr.  Thomas,  joiner,  Edge  Road,  Benfieldside,  i  copy. 

Noble,  Mr.  Mark,  Consett  Station,  i  copy. 

North  of  England  School  Furnishing  Co.,  Darlington,  3  copies. 

Nuttall,  Rev.  J.  K.,  13,  The  Oaks,  Sunderland,  i  copy. 


Oley,  Mr.  Joseph,  Wood  Street,  Shotley  Bridge,  4  copies. 
Oley,  Mr.  Christopher,  Cutlers'  Hall  Road,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 
Oley,  Mrs.  H.,  Whittonstall,  2  copies. 
Oliver,  Mr.  Robt.,  Shotley  Field  Mill,  i  copy. 
Oliver,  Mr.  John,  grocer,  Stanley,  3  copies. 
Ormerod,  Mr.  D.,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Osborne,  Mr.  John,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Osborne,  Mr.  Pattinson,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 


Palliser,  Mr.  James,  Foundry  Row,  Blackhill,  i  oopy. 


SUBSCRIBERS     NAMES.  XXV11 

Park,  Mr.  Robert,  Mount  Pleasant,  Consett,  i  copy. 

Parkinson,  Mr.  G.,  Sherburn,  Durham,  2  copies. 

Parkinson,  Mr.  Henry,  Railway  Terrace,   Fence  Houses,  2  copies. 

Parkinson,  Mr.  John  L.,  Sherburn,  Durham,  i  copy. 

Parkinson,  Mr.  Geo.,  Jun.,  Sherburn,  Durham,  i  copy. 

Parnaby,  Mr.  Chris.,  Cemetery  Road,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 

Patterson,  Mr.  Edward,  Shotley  Bridge,  2  copies. 

Patterson,  Mr.  George,  Benfieldside  Edge  Road,  i  copy. 

Pattinson,  Mr.  Thomas,  Castleside,  i  copy. 

Pattinson,  Mr.  Wm.,  Castleside,  i  copy. 

Pearson,  Mr.  Henry,  Edge  Road,  Benfieldside,  i  copy. 

Pearson,  Mr.  Geo.,  Airyholme,  Kilnpit  Hill,  Riding  Mill,  i  copy. 

Pease,  Sir  Jos.  W.,  Bart.,  M.P.,  Hutton  Hall,  Gisborough,  i  copy. 

Peile,  Geo.,  Esq.,  Greenwood,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 

Pescod,  Mr.  John,  Neville  Street,  Durham,  i  copy. 

Petherick,  Mr.  John,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 

Pickering,  Mr.  John,  Acton,  Blanchland,  i  copy. 

Powell,  Mr.  Thomas,  Belmont,  Durham,  i  copy. 

Powell,  Mr.  M.,  4,  Union  Place,  Gateshead,  i  copy. 

Priestman,  Jon.,  Esq.,  Derwent  Lodge,  Shotley  Bridge,  4  copies. 

Priestman,  F.,  Esq.,  Holly  Lodge,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 

Pringle,  Thos.,  Esq.,  Tanfield  Lea,  2  copies. 

Proud,  Mr.  John,  newsagent,  Durham  Road,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 

Proudlock,  Mr.  R.  E.,  7,  Broadwell  Row,  Oldbury,  Birmingham, 

i  copy. 

Proudlock,  Mr.  William,  St.  Neots,  Huntingdonshire,  i  copy. 
Purvis,  Mr.  Ralph,  Edge  Road,  Benfieldside,  i  copy. 


Quin,  Mr.  Stephen,  Westgate  Road,  Newcastle,  i  copy. 

rc 

Raine,  Rev.  F.,  Hexham,  i  copy. 

Radcliffe,  James,  Esq.,  Stafford  Villa,  South  Stockton,  i  copy. 
Ramsay,  Mr.  Wm.,  Baxton  Burn,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 
Reed,  Mr.  W".,  Old  Surgery,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 
Reed,  Mr.  Gawen,  Consett  Station,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 
Reed,  R.  B.,  Esq.,  Springfield,  Forest  Hall,  Newcastle,  i  copy. 
Reed,  Robt.,  Esq.,  Lintz  Colliery,  Lintz  Green,  i  copy. 
Reid,  Mr.  Geo.,  grocer,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 

Renton,  W.  M.,  Esq.,  M.D.,  Orchard  House,  Shotley  Bridge,  4 
copies. 


xxviii  SUBSCRIBERS'  NAMES. 

Renton,  Geo.,  Esq.,  M.D.,  Viewlands,  Blackhill,  2  copies. 
Rewcastle,  Cuthbert,  Esq.,  Hodgkin,  Barnett  &  Company's  Bank, 

Newcastle,  i  copy. 

Richardson,  Mr.  Geo.,  Shotley  Bridge,  2  copies. 
Richardson,  Mr.  John  ].,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Richardson,  Mrs.,  Springfield,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Richardson,  Mr.  Robert,  Newbottle,  Fence  Houses,  i  copy. 
Richardson,  Mr.  Wm.,  6,  Allendale  Cottages,  i  copy. 
Richardson,  Mr.  Geo.,  West  View  House,   Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Richardson,  Alderman  T.  R.,  Durham,  i  copy. 
Richardson,  Chas.,  Esq.,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Richley,  Mr.  M.,  Durham  Road,  Blackhill,  2  copies. 
Ridley,  Mr.  G.,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Ridley,  Mr.  Matthew,  Snow's  Green,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Rimington,  Mr.  J.  M.,  Whitley,  Northumberland,  i  copy. 
Rippon,  Mr.  Robert,  Wood  Street,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Ritson,  Mr.  W.  H.,  Lanchester,  i  copy. 
Ritson,  Wm.,  Esq.,  Woodley  Field,  Hexham,  2  copies. 
Ritson,  U.  A.,  Esq.,  J.P.,  18,  Hawthorn  Terrace,  Newcastle,  i  copy. 
Roberts,  Messrs.  W.  &  Co.,  4,  Summer  Row,  Birmingham,  2  copies. 
Robinson,  Thos.  W.  U.,  Esq.,  F.S.A.,  Hatfield  House,  Houghton- 

le-Spring,  2  copies. 

Robinson,  J.  Hastings,  Esq.,  Church  Stretton,  Shropshire,  i  copy. 
Robinson,  Mr.  W.,  grocer,  Medomsley,  i  copy. 
Robinson,  Mr.  Thomas,  Allansford,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 
Robinson,  Mr.  Geo.  T.,  Derwent  Street,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 
Robinson,  Mr.  Wm.  Durham  Road,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 
Robinson,  Mr.  Thomas,  joiner,  Medomsley,  i  copy. 
Robinson,  Mr.  F.,  15,  Allendale  Cottages,  i  copy. 
Robinson,  Mr.  Robt,  Pittington,  Durham,  i  copy. 
Robinson,  Miss,  Front  Street,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Robson,  Mr.  Geo.,  Edmondbyers,  i  copy. 
Robson,  Mr.  Geo.,  miller,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Robson,  Mr.  W.,  5,  Wesley  Terrace,  Dipton,  i  copy. 
Robson,  Mr.  John,  grocer's  assistant,   Spa  Well  Cottage,  Shotley 

Bridge,  i  copy. 

Robson,  Mr.  John,  cartwright,  Whittonstall,  Stocksfield,  i  copy. 
Robson,  Mr.  Robt,  merchant,  Castleside,  i  copy. 
Roddam,  Mr.  J.,  Broad  Chare,  Newcastle,  i  copy. 
Ross-Lewin,  Rev.  G.  H.,  M.A.,  Vicarage,  Benfieldside,  2  copies. 
Ross-Lewin,  Rev.  H.  H.,  Vicarage,  Benfieldside,  i  copy. 
Rounthwaite,  Mr.  J.  W.,  surveyor,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 
Rutherford,  Mr.  Thomas,  218,  High  Street,  Sunderland,  i  copy. 
Rutland,  Mr.  Geo.,  Bank,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 


SUBSCRIBERS'  NAMES.  xxix 


Salkeld,  Mr.  R.  W.,  manager  Durham  Advertiser,  \  copy. 

Seed,  Mr.  John,  Temperance  Hall,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 

Schellenberg,  Mr.,  Consett,  i  copy. 

Scott,  Mr.  W.  J.,  Sycamores,  Castleside,  i  copy. 

Scott,  Mr.  J.,  East  Parade,  Consett,  i  copy. 

Scott,  Mr.  James,  Blaydon  Saw  Mills,  Blaydon-on-Tyne,  i  copy. 

Shaw,  Mr.  R.  W.,  Villa  Real,  Leadgate,  i  copy. 

Shell,  Mr.  Wm.,  Barr  House,  Consett,  i  copy. 

Shell,  Mr.  Wm.,  Jun.,  Consett  Station,  Benfieldside,  i  copy. 

Sherlock,  Mr.  Robt.,  Gold  Hill,  Waskerley,  Darlington,  i  copy. 

Sherritt,  Mr.  John,  Cutlers'  Hall  Road,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 

Shimmin,  Mr.  Geo.,  36,  Fawcett  Street,  Sunderland,  i  copy. 

Shotton,  Mr.,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 

Shotton,  Miss,  Randolph  Street,  Sunderland,  i  copy. 

Siddell,  Thomas,  Esq.,  Viewfield,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 

Siddle,  Mr.  Geo.,  Front  Street,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 

Siddle,  Mr.  N.  C.,  Watling  Villa,  Willington,  Durham,  i  copy. 

Simpson,  Mr.  Ralph,  172,  Prince  Consort  Rqad,  Gateshead,  i  copy. 

Slack,  Mr.  John,  bookseller,  North  Road,  Durham,  i  copy. 

Sloane,  Mr.  Ed.,  postmaster,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 

Smith,  Geo.  G.  Taylor,  Esq.,  J.P.,  Broadwood  Park,  i  copy. 

Smith,  Thos.  Taylor,  Esq.,  Greencroft  Park,  i  copy. 

Smith,  Mrs.,  23,  Woodbine  Street,  Sunderland,  i  copy. 

Smith,  Rev.  H.,  Wesleyan  minister,  Bedale,  Yorks.,  i  copy. 
.Smith,  Mr.  Richd.,  Benfieldside,  i  copy. 

Smith,  Mr.  John,  Rose  Cottage,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 

Smith,  Mr.  John,  East  House,  Medomsley,  i  copy. 
Smith,  Mr.  Thomas,  ironfounder,  Blaydon-on-Tyne,  i  copy. 
Smith,  Mr.  John  G.,  Coppice  Hall,  near  Bilston,  i  copy. 
Smith,  Mr.  J.  G.,  The  Hencotes,  Hexham,  i  copy. 
Smith,  Mr.  Francis,  Chronicle  Office,  Durham,  i  copy. 
Smith,  Mr.  Geo.,  u,  Queen  Street,  Consett,  i  copy. 
Smith,  Mr.  John,  The  Grange,  Castleside,  i  copy. 
Soulsby,  Mr.  Joseph,  Philadelphia,  Fence  Houses,  i  copy. 
Spraggon,  Miss,  Wood  Street,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Spraggon,  Mr.  John,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Stephenson,  Mr.  Charles,  Cemetery  Road,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 
Stoddart,  Mr.  Wm.,  Ebchester,  i  copy. 
Stout,  Mr.  Abraham,  Advertiser  Office,  Durham,  i  copy. 
Strachan,  Mr.  Wm.,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 

Summerson,  Mr.  Michael,   14,  Vane  Terrace,   Seaham   Harbour, 
i  copy. 


xxx  SUBSCRIBERS'  NAMES. 

Surtees,  Miss,  Hamsterley  Hall,  Lintz  Green,  i  copy. 

Surtees,  Miss  Eleanor,  Hamsterley  Hall,  i  copy. 

Surtees,  Mr.  H.,  Edmondbyers,  i  copy. 

Surtees,  Mr.  Joseph,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 

Surtees,  Mr.  John,  Co-operative  Store,  Consett,  i  copy. 

Surtees,  Mr.  Wm.,  Benfieldside,  i  copy. 

Surtees,  Mr.  Thomas,  Co-operative  Store,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 

Surtees,  Mr.  Geo.,  Wheldon's  House,  Ebchester,  i  copy. 

Surtees,  Mr.  Jos.  L.,  19,  Sherburn  Terrace,  Consett,  i  copy. 

Swan,  Robert,  Esq.,  95,  Roker  Avenue,  Sunderland,  i  copy. 

Swaby,  Rev.  Wm.  'Proctor,  S.  Mark's  Vicarage,  Millfield,  Sunder- 

land, i  copy. 

Swinburn,  Mr.  J.  T.,  Black  House,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Sykes,  Rev.  E.  S.,  M.A.,  curate  of  St.  John's,  Sunderland,  2  copies. 


Tait,  Mr.  John,  23,  Sherburn  Terrace,  Consett,  i  copy. 

Taylor,  Mr.  Edward,  Benfieldside,  i  copy.  . 

Taylor,  Mr.  Robert,  The  Terrace,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 

Taylor,  Mr.  W.  R.,  Stanifordam,  Consett,  i  copy. 

Taylor,  Mr.  J.  B.,  High  Pittington,  Durham,  i  copy. 

Taylor,  Mr.  Isaac,  9,  Millicent  Terrace,  Gateshead,  i  copy. 

Taylor,  Mr.  Henry,  76,  Gilesgate,  Durham,  i  copy. 

Teare,  Mr.  P.,  Board  Schools,  Benfieldside,  i  copy. 

Telford,  Mr.  Thomas,  18,  Wharncliffe  Street,  Newcastle,  i  copy. 

Telford,  Mr.  Robert,  Berry  Edge  Farm,  Consett,  i  copy. 

Telford,  Mr.  W.,  Cutlers'  Hall,  Benfieldside,  i  copy. 

Temperley,  Mr.  Wm.,  Edmondbyers,  i  copy. 

Templeton,  Mr.  S.,  4,  Bessemer  Street,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 

Thirlwell,  Mr.  John,  Snod's  Edge,  Blackhill,  2  copies. 

Thirlwell,  Mr.  John,  Front  Street,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 

Thirlwell,  Mr.  Joshua,  12,  Allendale  Cottages,  i  copy. 

Thompson,  Thomas  C.,   Esq.,  M.P.,  i,   Lower  Grosvenor  Place, 

London,  i  copy. 

Thompson,  Mr.  James,  Sherburn,  Durham,  i  copy. 
Thompson,  Mr.  Wm.,  Cutlers'  Hall,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Thompson,  Mr.  Jas.,  42,  Cloth  Market,  Newcastle-on-Tyne,  i  copy. 
Thompson,  Mr.  Joseph,  Post  Office,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Thompson,  Mr.  John  J.,  Prentice  Close  House,  Lanchester,  i  copy. 
Thompson,  Mrs.  Brewster,  15,   Grosvenor  Terrace,   Harrogate,  i 

copy. 
Thompson,  Mr.  Thos.,  Exchange  Buildings,  Ramsgate,  Stockton- 

on-Tees,  i  copy. 


SUBSCRIBERS     NAMES.  XXXI 

Thompson,  Mr.  James,  registrar,  Lanchester,  i  copy. 
Thubron,  Mr.  John,  53,  Denvcnt  Road,  Gateshead,  i  copy. 
Tilly,  Mr.  Wm.,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 

Tooby,  Mr.  Geo.,  166,  Jefferson  Street,  Newcastle-on-Tyne,  i  copy. 
Town,  Annandale,  Esq.,  J.P.,  Allansford,  i  copy. 
Tregelles,  Edwin  O.,  Esq.,  Banbury,  i  copy. 
Tregenza,  Mr.  P.  P.,  Malwda  Walks,  Sheffield,  i  copy. 
Trotter,  Mr.  Andrew,  Shotley  Grove,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Tucker,  Mr.  John,  6,  Belgrave  Terrace,  Gateshead,  i  copy. 
Turner,  Mr.  George,  3,  Dixon  Street,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 
Turner,  Mr.  Wm.,  Whitehall  Lodge,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 
Turner,  Mr.  A.  E.,  41,  Durham  Road,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 
Turner,  Mr.  Chas.,  35,  Cromwell  Street,  Newcastle,  i  copy. 
Turnbull,  Mr.  Thos.,  \Vhittonstall  Woodhouse,  Stocksfield,  i  copy. 


Uncles,  Mr.  Henry,  Wood  Street,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Uytman,  Mr.  John,  20,  Church  Street,   Johnstone,  near  Glasgow, 

i  copy. 

Urwin,  Mr.  Wm.,  Front  Street,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Urwin,  Mr.  James,  New  Pittington,  Durham,  i  copy. 
Urwin,  Mr.  L.,  Front  Street,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Urwin,  Robt.,  Esq.,  St.  Nicholas'  Buildings,  Newcastle,  2  copies. 


Vasey,  Miss,  Market  Place,  Durham,  i  copy. 


Walker,  E.  J.,  Esq.,  Shotley  House,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Walker,  Miss  V.,  Shotley  House,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Walker  &  Emley,  Messrs.,  Westgate  Road,  Newcastle,  2  copies. 
Walton,  Mr.  Ralph,  Bessemer  Street,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 
Walton,  Mr.  Ralph,  Lanchester,  Durham,  i  copy. 
Ward,  Mr.  Wm.,  Iveston,  i  copy. 

WTard,  Mr.  Wm.,  Shotley  Grove,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Wardhaugh,  Mr.  W.,  Front  Street,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
\Vardhaugh,  Mr.  E.,  High  Street,  Sunderland,  i  copy. 
Wardhaugh,  Mr.  W.,  Junr.,  Front  Street,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Wardhaugh,  Mr.  E.,  Jun.,  blacksmith,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Wardhaugh,  Mrs.,  Baxton  Burn,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 
Wardle,  Mr.  John,  Low  Westwood,  Ebchester,  i  copy. 


xxxii  SUBSCRIBERS'  NAMES. 

Wardle,  Mr  John,  Ebchester,  i  copy. 

Watson,  Mr.  G.,  Whitley  N.  School,  Hexham,  2  copies. 

Watson,  Mr.  H.  W.,  Burnopfield,  i  copy. 

Watson,  Mr.  T.,  Wesleyan  preacher,  Consett,  i  copy. 

Waugh,  Mr.  Geo.,  Low  Waskerley,  Shotley  Bridge,,  i  copy. 

Waugh,  Mr.  T.,  Low  Waskerley,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 

Wayman,  J.  W.,  Esq.,  Mayor  of  Sunderland,  i  copy. 

Wheatley,  Mr.  W.,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 

Wheatley,    Mr.   W.,   veterinary  surgeon,    23,  Saville  Street,  South 

Shields,  i  copy. 

Wheldon,  Miss,  Shotley  Villa,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy.  6  » 

Whinney,  Mr.  Thomas,  Cemetery  Lodge,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 
White,  Mr.  Joseph,  Sherburn  Hill,  Durham,  i  copy. 
Whiteley,  Mr.  Alfred,  Lightcliffe,  Halifax,  i  copy. 
Whitfield,  Messrs.  &  Sons,  Winlaton,  Blaydon,  i  copy. 
Wilbraham,  A.B.,  Esq.,  Snow's  Green  House,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Wiles,  Mr.  Wm.,  Sherburn  Terrace,  Consett,  i  copy. 
Wilkinson,  Mr.  John,  Morrowfield,  Chester-le-Street,  i  copy. 
Wilson,  Mr.  W.,  Oakfield,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Willis,   Rev.   R.   G.,  Goodmanham,    Market  Weighton,  Yorks.,  i 

copy. 

Willey,  Mr.  Aaron,  Ebchester,  i  copy. 
Williams,  Mr.  R.  B.,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 
Wilson,  Mr.  George,  Springfield,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Wilson,  John,  Esq,,  M.D.,  Lanchester,  i  copy. 
Wilson,  Mr.  Robert,  29,  Argyle  Street,  Glasgow,  i  copy. 
Wilson,  Mr.  Geo.,  Shotley  Hall,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Wilson,  Charles,  Esq.,  Shotley  Park,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Wilson,  Mr.  John,  27,  Front  Street,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Wilson,  Mr.  Henry,  73,  Clayton  Street,  Newcastle,  i  copy. 
Wilson,  Mr.  Wm.,  Jun.,  Oak  Street,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Wilson,  Mr.,  exciseman,  Lanchester,  i  copy. 
Wilson,  Mr.,  Shotley  Hall,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Wood,  Mr.  Jas.  H.,  Field  Head,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Wood,  Miss,  Springfield,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Wood,  Miss  Rebecca,  Springfield,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Woodman,  Mr.  George,  Norfolk  Street,  Sunderland,  i  copy. 
Wright,  Mr.  W.  H.,  East  Castle,  Leadgate,  i  copy. 
Wright,  Mr.  James,  8,  Roger  Street,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 


Yuile,  Mr.,  Shotley,  Shotley  Bridge,  i  copy. 
Young,  Mr.  Wm.,  Durham  Road,  Blackhill,  i  copy. 


to  1ber  flDaje0t$,  (Stueen  Victoria. 


|ADY,  the  noblest  of  your  favoured  reign 
With  trembling  speak  the  merits  of  their  Queen, 
Lest  all-impotent  be  their  feeble  strain 
To  breathe  the  praises  due ;  much  less,  I  ween, 
Should  one,  your  humblest  subject,  be  so  vain 
As  bind  his  thoughts,  though  love-inspired,  in  rhyme  : 
He  had  not  thus  have  shown  so  bold  a  mien, 
Had  not  a  volume  in  Victoria's  time 
Seemed,  lacking  her  bright  name,  a  sun-forsaken  clime. 


Recalling  infancy,  Victoria's  name 

First  pressed  the  tender  tablets  of  my  heart, 

And  deeply  has  it  written  there  its  claim 

To  that  deep  reverence  which  a  mother  taught ; 

The  honour  is  not  mine  :  the  patriot  thought 

Was  breathed  into  my  being  e'er  to  dwell. 

Afar  in  other  realms  I've  roved,  and  caught 

Its  echoes  like  to  distant  music's  swell, 

Which  wooed  my  bosom  back  to  shores  it  loved  so  well. 


STANZAS    TO   QUEEN   VICTORIA. 


Happy,  O  glorious  England,  thou  art  now ! 

A  monarch  rules  by  virtue  swayed  ; — and  ne'er 

Did  thy  proud  crown  sit  on  a  worthier  brow, 

Where  smiling  freedom  mocks  the  tyrant's  sneer, 

And  pity  dwells,  to  misery  ever  dear ; 

And  leaps  within  her  shrine  when  kindred  woe' 

Goes  through  the  land,  and  mourners  shed  the  tear — 

The  thrilling  tear,  bereavement  bids  to  flow 

To  quench  the  glowing  joy  that  happier  days  bestow. 


Happy,  O  Albion  !  for  in  this  alone 

Thou  art  more  blest  than  other  lands  may  be  ; 

It  is  not  in  the  splendour  of  a  throne, 

Which  sheds  its  glory  over  earth  and  sea, 

That  honour  finds  an  immortality  : 

'Tis  that  religion's  light  is  shining  there, 

Pointing  a  radiant  pathway  to  the  sky, 

Dispensed  with  woman's  tenderness  and  care, — 

O  Virtue,  Honour,  Truth,  what  triumphs  you  may  share  ! 


When  o'er  the  land  the  gloom  of  sorrow  came, 

From  legion  hearts  the  smile  of  joy  to  chase, 

When  he  succumbed  to  death  whose  honoured  name 

Keeps  in  the  hearts  of  men  its  wonted  place, 

Lady,  "  o'er  him  who  uttered  nothing  base," 

With  you  the  nation  poured  its  warmest  tears, 

And  time  shall  ne'er  that  sympathy  erase  ; 

The  patriot  father,  who  that  name  reveres, 

Shall  tell  it  to  his  child  to  ring,  through  countless  years. 


A  noble  spirit !  such  his  spouse  hath  been  : 

If  patriot  rapture  did  his  breast  inspire, 

Twas  nursed  within  the  bosom  of  his  Queen, 

To  burn  as  burns  Vesuvius'  quenchless  fire. 

If  England's  morals  have  not  mounted  higher 

Towards  the  haven  of  some  purer  clime, 

And  marked  the  age  with  deeds  the  good  admire, 

It  is  not  that  her  monarch  smiled  on  crime, 

But  rather  taught  the  heart  to  ponder  things  sublime. 


STANZAS  TO  QUEEN  VICTORIA. 


In  other  climes,  far  o'er  the  booming  seas, 

Wherever  Britain's  name  is  heard  to  ring, 

(And  is  there  one  lone  spot  of  earth  whose  breeze 

Has  not  been  vocal  with  its  echoing  ?) 

Victoria's  name  is  as  a  magic  thing, 

Flinging  enchantments  o'er  the  hearts  of  men  ; 

The  savage  dreams  its  power,  lingering 

By  waving  forest,  mountain,  crag,  and  glen, 

And  blesses  freedom's  home  and  Albion's  glorious  Queen. 


The  sable  son  of  Afric's  torrid  zone, 

The  slave  of  tyranny's  desire  for  gold, 

Looks  to  our  shore  with  bosom-rending  groan 

And  asks,  with  pity,  why  he's  bought  and  sold  ? 

Lady,  no  fault  is  yours  ;  the  Briton  bold 

Would  have  the  world  as  mountain  breezes,  free ! 

Brave  Livingstone  !  thou  of  heroic  mould, 

The  fettered  millions  look  with  hope  to  thee : 

Urge  on  thy  soul's  desire  till  crowned  by  victory. 


Thou  art  no  fabled  child  of  fevered  thought, 

And  he  who  seeks  a  thrilling  tale  to  tell 

To  glowing  hearts  of  future  ages,  fraught 

With  all  the  varied  elements  which  swell 

The  human  breast,  may  turn  to  thee  and  dwell 

On  deeds  illumed  by  Truth's  eternal  light : 

And  if  his  genius  fit  the  subject  well, 

It  will  be  shown  the  best  and  bravest  fight 

Without  the  sword  or  shield,  save  heaven's  protecting  might. 


So,  lady,  God  your  sword  and  shield  hath  been  ;— 
In  vain  the  wretch  has  sought  your  blood  to  spill, 
To  take  a  life  the  millions  love,  I  ween  ; 
But  pistols  err,  nor  men  have  power  to  kill 
Whom  God  protects,  escape  the  flashing  steel, 
And  tempests  howling  through  the  sounding  sky ; 
The  toppling  crags,  winds,  waves,  obey  His  will : 
To  such  in  vain  do  danger's  arrows  fly, 
For  guided  by  His  hand,  they  harmlessly  pass  by. 


STANZAS   TO   QUEEN  VICTORIA. 


Blest  be  the  children  of  your  house  and  heart, 

And  whereso'er  their  fields  of  labour  lie  ; 

May  that  fair  wisdom  ne'er  their  souls  desert, 

Taught  and  impressed  beneath  a  parent's  eye. 

And  O  !  may  virtue  ever  linger  by, 

And  guide  them  safely  through  the  snares  of  earth, 

To  breathe  the  blessing  which  shall  never  die, 

And  emulate  their  parents'  deeds  and  worth  ; 

Whilst,  lady,  from  our  hearts  this  wish  we  would  pour  forth 


O  !  long  may  she,  the  Mother  of  the  Isles, 

Bless  her  brave  children  with  a  mother's 'care, 

Throw  o'er  our  homes  the  sunshine  of  her  smiles, 

And  reign  a  welcome  guardian  angel  there ; 

Beloved  of  the  nations,  may  she  spare 

Our  tears  through  long  and  happy  years  to  come, 

And  though  her  brow  the  widow's  wreath  may  wear, 

Which  points,  like  autumn's  seer  leaves,  to  the  tomb, 

Her  virtue's  lights  shall  shine  like  starbeams  'mid  the  gloom. 


jjO  sounding  domes,  which  echo  to  the  tread, 

Nor  towers  majestic  rear  their  forms  on  high, — 
Nor  ancient  palace  lifts  its  sombre  head, 

To  kiss  the  blue  or  brave  the  stormy  sky, — 
Hast  thou,  sweet  village ;  but  where'er  the  eye 

Turns  in  its  musings,  Beauty  greets  the  sight ; — 
Whether  upon  the  shining  river  by, 

When  pale  Diana  pours  her  flood  of  light, 
And  mortals  love  with  awe  beneath  the  tranquil  night ; 


*  Shotley  Bridge  is  situated  on  the  right  bank  of  the  river  Derwent, 
at  an  equal  distance  of  fourteen  miles  from  Newcastle,  Durham,  and 
Hexham.  The  Derwent  here  divides  the  counties  of  Durham  and 
Northumberland,  and  is  spanned  by  a  bridge  of  one  arch,  or,  more 
correctly  speaking,  of  two  arches  of  the  same  form  and  dimension  put 
up  at  different  times  ;  the  western  one,  much  older  of  the  two,  having 
been  found  too  narrow  for  convenient  traffic,  the  eastern  part  was  added 
about  sixty  years  ago.  A  bridge  evidently  existed  here  five  or  six 
hundred  years  ago,  for  in  the  survey  of  Bishop  Hatfield,  we  find  under 
Benfieldsidc,  one  of  the  vills  of  the  Manor  of  Lanchester,  William 
Broune  holding  I  messuage  and  12  acres,  formerly  held  by  William  at 
the  Brig  ;  and,  again,  Thomas  of  the  Brig  held  I  messuage  and  27  acres, 
formerly  held  by  John  Abell.  It  may  be  assumed,  however,  from  the 
fact  of  a  ford  existing  at  Shotley  until  comparatively  recent  times,  that 
the  bridge  was  a  wooden  structure  for  foot  passengers  only.  The 
engraving  on  the  opposite  page  represents  the  bridge  as  it  appeared  in 
1838,  since  which  time  the  surroundings  have  undergone  but  slight 
alteration.  The  view  from  this  point  is  exceedingly  picturesque,  whether 
you  look  up  or  down  the  river.  Immediately  above  the  bridge,  the 
river  dashes  over  a  ledge  of  millstone  grit,  through  which  the  water 
has  cut  numerous  channels,  into  a  pool,  known  as  "Jenny's  Hole," 
from  which  many  a  noble  trout  has  been  taken  in  days  gone  by,  when 
the  adjoining  hostelry  of  the  Bridge  Inn  was  a  famous  and  lavcurite 


SHOTLEY  BRIDGE. 


Or  on  the  landscape,  where  wood,  field,  and  glen 

Vie  in  their  wealth  of  loveliness,  and  smile 
As  things  of  human  mind  on  wayward  men, 

To  draw  them  forth  from  error,  and  beguile 
The  lower  passions.     Virtue's  free  the  while, 

Calling  the  heart  to  objects  more  divine. 
Alas  !  that  sin  the  meanest  breast  should  soil, 

Since  mother  Nature  is  a  holy  shrine 
Of  purity  and  joy  :  partake  and  ne'er  repine. 


resort  for  anglers.  From  the  bridge  to  the  Paper  Mill,  higher  up  the 
stream,  the  banks  on  both  sides  are  overhung  with  beech  and  oak,  and 
the  river  has  formed  its  bed  in  the  millstone  grit,  which  it  has  laid  bare. 
This  rock,  as  its  name  implies,  has  long  been  used  for  millstones,  for 
which,  from  its  extreme  hardness,  it  is  peculiarly  adapted.  That  such 
has  been  its  use  in  this  locality  five  centuries  ago,  the  records  to  be 
presently  referred  to  conclusively  prove.  The  earliest  mention  of  Shotley 
Bridge  by  name  is  in  an  admittance  of  Gilbert  de  Brendon  to  "  one  acre 
of  new  waste  which  lies  near  the  high  street  which  leads  to  Shotley 
Brigg,"  rendering  6d.  yearly,  recorded  in  the  Halmote  Roll  of  the  Manor 
of  Manchester,  under  Benfieldside,  nth  Hatfield  (1356).  In  the  same 
Roll,  in  the  nth  year  of  Bishop  Skirlaw,  (1399),  John  Robinson  is  fined 
for  not  having  John  Milner  of  Iveston  to  answer  the  Lord  for  five 
millstones  obtained  at  Shotle  Brig  ;  and  at  a  subsequent  Court  (vol.  3> 
p.  571)  the  jury  of  the  vill  of  Benfieldside  present  that  "John  Sadler 
'arrested  John  Milner  of  Ilhestane  (Iveston)  for  two  pairs  of  millstones, 
of  the  value  of  two  shillings,  for  the  Lord's  rent  for  leave  to  dig  the 
millstones  in  the  Lord's  soil  near  Shotle  Brig."  The  Halmote  Rolls 
contain  numerous  entries  of  payments  made  for  license  to  dig  millstones 
out  of  the  bed  of  the  river,  and  frequent  fines  are  inflicted  for  taking 
them  without  the  Lord's  license.  John,  the  Miller  of  Iveston,  was  not 
the  only  offender.  Thomas  Brown  is  fined  qd.  for  taking  a  pair  of 
quernstones  without  leave  (p.  300).  At  the  same  Court,  John  of  Iveston 
is  amerced  in  6d.  for  a  small  millstone,  for  the  payment  of  which  the  said 
Thomas  Brown,  though  trespasser  himself,  is  not  refused  as  his  surety. 
It  is  curious  to  observe  traces  of  these  depredations  upon  the  Lord's 
strict  rights  still  existing  in  the  river  bed,  after  the  lapse  of  five  centuries. 
Between  the  bridge  and  the  Paper  Mill,  may  be  seen  numerous  round 
holes  in  the  millstone  grit,  from  which  millstones  have  been  taken  ;  and 
as  in  some  places  the  slow  action  of  the  water  on  this  hard  rock  has 
almost  worn  away  the  trace  of  the  holes  from  which  it  is  evident  mill- 
stones at  a  remote  period  have  been  removed,  it  is  not  difficult  to  believe 
that  the  entries  above  refer  to  some  of  the  existing  marks.  The  accom- 
panying woodcut  is  taken  from  a  sketch  by  Richardson,  and  will  convey 
an  idea  of  the  village  near  50  years  ago,  before  the  transition  from  rural 
retirement  into  a  species  of  surburbari  town  had  commenced.  Now, 
however,  the  slopes  above  the  village  are  covered  with  handsome  villas, 
whose  sites  have  been  well  chosen,  and  whose  architectural  characteristics 
harmonise  with  the  features  of  the  adjoining  landscape. — History  of  West 
Durham. 


SHOTLEY  BRIDGE. 


Reader,  deem  not  the  soul  which  gladly  lingers 

By  Beauty's  dwellings,  in  the  flower  or  tree, 
Whose  glorious  tints  are  touched  by  peerless  fingers, 

Or  the  still  shining  lake  or  surging  sea, 
Looks  not  through  these  upon  Eternity, 

Or  worships  beauty  in  a  narrow  sense 
For  her  sweet  sake  alone,  for  it  is  free 

To  trace  the  limitless  intelligence, — 
Who  made  the  hallowed  lovelier  things,  that  thence 


Mankind  might  quaff  the  spirit  of  His  lore ; 

And  thus,  with  other  aid,  their  souls  might  climb 
To  His  high  altar  on  a  purer  shore, 

And  breathe  the  love  and  majesty  sublime, 
Which  live  in  vigour  in  that  stainless  clime, 

Where  Hunger,  Sin,  and  Hate  can  have  no  home. 
O  God  !  that  man  should  choose  the  curse  of  crime, 

And  give  within  his  breast  the  viper  room, 
Whose  sting  can  poison  here,  and  damn  him  in  the  tomb. 


Here,  in  these  shades,  in  Summer's  genial  air, 

'Mid  gardens  sloping  toward  the  river's  shore, 
Are  flowers  as  fragrant,  blushing  maids  as  fair, 

As  Eastern  clime  can  boast,  or  gods  adore. 
Here  may  the  gloomy  poet  dream  his  lore, 

Where  nought  save  man  blots  Nature's  comely  face, 
And  hear  in  sounds,  the  river's  dashing  roar, 

The  full-voiced  winds,  the  song-bird's  gushing  praise, 
The  spirit-notes  of  Him  whose  being  fills  all  space. 


Come  roam  with  me,  my  friend,  and  we  will  share 

The  tender  pleasures  of  a  waking  dream. 
First,  let  us  to  the  Hally  Well  repair, — 

Thou  art,  I  think,  a  stranger  to  my  theme. 
Here,  many  years  ago,  a  man  supreme 

In  mind  and  wealth  among  his  fellows  round, 
Raised  yon  fair  cots  which  in  the  sun-light  gleam, — 

That  humble  shed  by  moss-grown  heather  crowned, 
Whence  flows  a  copious  spring  of  water  from  the  ground. 


SHOTLEY  BRIDGE. 


Here  quaffed  the  scurvy-smitten  ones  of  yore, 

And  praised  the  merits  of  the  healing  flood, 
The  breeze,  but  still  the  benefactor  more,* 

And  grew  in  ardour  as  their  health  grew  good  ; 
But  he  who  labouring  for  the  public  stood 

Admired,  respected,  loved,  is  slighted  now ; — 
A  seeming  error  raised  the  multitude, 

And  those  who  shared  his  bounty  most,  I  vow, 
Remember  all  his  faults,  his  virtues  ne'er  allow. 


*  Jonathan  Richardson,  who  projected  and  carried  into  execution 
those  great  improvements  that  have  quite  changed  the  general  aspect  of 
Shotley  Bridge.  He  was  connected  with  the  Durham  and  Northumber- 
land District  Bank  at  the  time  of  its  failure  in  1857,  and  he  was  blamed 
by  some  for  the  unfortunate  occurrence,  which  brought  poverty  to  many 
a  previously  happy  home  ;  but  that  the  accusations  laid  to  his  charge 
were  groundless  has  many  a  time  ere  this  been  proved. — History  of  West 
Durham. 

+  From  the  earliest  ages,  men  have  placed  a  high  value  upon  mineral 
waters,  as  possessing  divine  remedies  for  various  diseases  which  afflict 
mankind.  The  common  well,  in  many  oriental  countries,  was  viewed 
as  of  vital  importance,  simply  because  of  the  value  of  water  in  their 
arid  climate  ;  and  especially  in  the  wilderness  a  spring,  was  viewed  as  a 
direct  bounty  of  Providence,  because  it  was  necessary  to  the  preservation 
of  life,  and  hence  called  "  the  living  water,"  or  the  water  of  life.  But 
where  the  waters  of  a  spring  either  constantly,  or  recurrently  at  certain 
periods,  were  known  to  have  some  healing  properties,  there  arose  in  the 
minds  of  the  people  a  more  immediate  recognition  of  divine  purpose, 
and  an  increased  veneration.  Our  Saxon  forefathers,  also,  according  to 
the  customs  of  the  ancients,  had  their  sacred  fountains,  especially  such 
as  were  thought  to  have  healing  virtues,  and  from  them  we  have  derived 
the  name  "  Hally  Well."  Some  have  written  the  name  "  Holy  Well," 
and  supposed  ' '  Hally  Well "  to  be  a  corruption  or  provincialism  ;  but, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  the  common  people  preserve  the  original  of  names 
longer  than  the  learned.  Hally  is  the  adjective  form  of  the  Saxon  word 
hal,  meaning  sound  in  bodily  health  ;  and,  secondly,  sound  in  a  moral 
sense.  The  hally  well,  therefore,  was  no  doubt  so  denominated  while 
the  Saxon  was  the  mother  tongue  of  the  common  people.  "  Spa"  is  the 
name  of  a  town  in  Belgium,  famed  for  its  medicinal  waters,  and  is  now 
generally  given  to  all  mineral  springs  ;  hence  the  name  has  been  applied 
to  the  mineral  waters  of  Shotley.  Tradition  points  out  a  hally  well  at 
Shotley  from  time  immemorial,  and  its  water  was  always  thought  to  be 
remedial  in  scrofulous  complaints.  An  old  inhabitant,  who  was  wont  to 
court  the  Muses,  has  fairly  well  expressed  the  received  opinion  in  these 
lines — 

"  No  scurvy  in  your  skin  can  dwell, 
If  you  only  drink  the  Hally  Well." 

In  the  beginning  of  this  century,  there  were  those  in  the  village  wh» 
could  remember  their  juvenile  sports  around  the  spring,  where  they  used 


SHOTLEY  BRIDGE. 


But  Time's  old  car  majestically  rolled  on, 

Correcting  error,  showing  fallacy  ; 
And  men  of  narrower  sense  than  Richardson, 

See  now  the  vision  as  he  saw  with  eye, 
Whose  glance  prescient  read  the  Future's  sky, 

Which  canopied  the  world's  commercial  maze  : 
Had  Honour  not  been  forced  the  field  to  fly, 

As  cursed  Mistrust  looked  on  with  withering  gaze, 
Men  had  not  wronged  him  then,  nor  spared  till  now  their  praise. 


to  drink  for  the  purpose  of  seeing  each  other's  grimaces  at  the  taste. 
Many  people  at  that  time  from  distant  places  used  to  frequent  the  well 
to  drink  the  water,  and  carry  away  supplies  for  use  at  home.  The 
water  used  to  stand  in  a  natural  basin  formed  by  surrounding  hillocks 
of  moss  and  grass,  the  quantity  never  seeming  to  vary.  The  water 
having  formed  a  sort  of  bog,  was  drained  away  into  the  Derwent  ; 
and  it  was  noticed  that  the  sides  of  the  channel  in  which  the  water 
flowed  were  always  of  a  vermilion  colour,  indicating  the  presence  of  a 
considerable  quantity  of  iron.  Such,  according  to  Mr.  Ryan's  History 
of  Shotley  Spa,  to  which  interesting  little  work  we  are  indebted  for 
many  of  the  foregoing  details,  was  the  condition  of  the  well  about 
seventy-five  years  ago.  The  time,  however,  was  to  come  when  the 
valuable  spring  was  to  be  made  more  widely  known.  In  1838,  Mr. 
Jonathan  Richardson,  the  owner  of  the  estate,  made  a  search  for  the 
source  of  the  once  famous  mineral  water,  and  under  the  guidance  of 
some  old  inhabitants  he  succeeded  in  finding  the  hally  well.  There  was, 
however,  much  to  be  done  in  order  to  bring  the  Spa  into  deserved 
notoriety,  and  to  make  the  situation  suitable  for  a  health  resort.  But, 
confident  in  the  high  value  of  the  mineral  spring,  he  immediately  under- 
took the  necessary  improvements  and  erections  required,  and  his  energy 
and  liberality,  seldom  surpassed,  soon  made  every  arrangement  for  the 
accommodation  of  visitors  to  Shotley  Spa.  An  upright  stone  was  placed 
over  the  well,  and  the  water  was  made  to  flow  through  a  spout  into  a 
round,  low  basin,-  as  in  the  accompanying  woodcut,  which  depicts  the 
well  surrounded  by  visitors  to  the  Spa,  and  which  is  reproduced  from  a 
sketch  made  by  Richardson  in  1838.  A  saloon  and  bathroom  were 
erected  a  short  distance  off,  carriage  drives  and  footpaths  were  formed, 
and  soon  the  estate  resembled  an  ornamental  garden.  To  the  south-east 
of  the  Spa,  and  in  close  proximity,  a  handsome  hotel,  planned  on  a  large 
scale,  with  a  suitable  set  of  stables,  was  built  ;  and  other  residences 
starting  into  existence  at  the  same  time  for  the  accommodation  of  the 
visitors  who  flocked  to  the  place,  the  general  aspect  of  the  village 
rapidly  changed.  The  Spa  is  about  half-a-mile  from  the  town,  and 
is  surrounded  by  some  romantic  scenery.  After  passing  through  the 
lodge  gates,  a  broad  walk  or  carriage  road  winding  under  a  lofty  canopy 
of  trees,  leads  you  towards  the  Spa,  and  round  the  haughs  in  which  it 
is  situated.  The  visitor  will  then  observe  that  he  has  entered  a  natural 
park,  and  treads  on  the  arena,  or  rather  the  meadow-floor  of  a  vast 
ampitheatre,  formed  by  the  graceful  circumvolution  of  the  banks  towering 
around  ;  the  trees,  of  rich  and  varied  foliage,  and  rising  above  each 


16  SHOTLEY  BRIDGE. 


Thou  hast,  companion  of  my  way,  an  eye 

For  Heaven's  Creations — Nature's  loveliness. 
Look  eastward  on  that  scene's  sublimity, 

That  emerald  mantled  beauteous  precipice  ; 
The  cloud-aspiring  trees,  with  fond  caress 

The  zephyrs  woo  them.     Mark  their  graceful  motion  : 
Wave  piled  on  wave  receding  might  impress 

Thy  breast  that  thou  wert  gazing  on  an  ocean 
With  endless  hues  adorned,  in  proud  and  wild  devotion. 

A  few  steps  onward,  I  have  yet  to  show 

Thine  eyes  delighted,  an  enchanting  dell ; 
The  sunbeams  peep  into  its  depths  below, 

In  whose  soft  light  the  shadowy  glories  dwell. 
Here  the  calm-loving  fern  a  tale  may  tell, 

And  woo  thee  from  distraction  to  repose ; 
The  moss-grown  rock,  the  flower,  the  streamlet's  swell, 

Preach  each  their  sermon,  breathing  joys  and  woes, 
Shall  raise  thy  tender  soul  to  Love's  volcanic  throes. 

There  are  whom  beauty  cannot  thrill, 

Nor  love  to  aught  ecstatic  wake, — 
Who  see  nought  glorious  in  the  rill, 

The  silver  saugh  or  shining  lake, — • 
Who  walk  by  fields  of  starry  flowers, 
Or  sylvan  nooks,  or  twilight  bowers, — • 
Or  where  the  mountains'  craggy  forms, 
Bury  their  heads  in  clouds  and  storms, 
Or  kiss  the  far  inviting  blue 
'Mid  freshest  air  and  purest  dew, — 
Or  by  the  roaring  waterfalls, 
Where  echo  unto  echo  calls, — 
Without  a  wonder,  sigh,  or  thought 

Of  whence  all  came,  what  hand  had  given, 
And  cold  as  marble  feel  for  nought, 
Who  weep  not,  glow  not,  are  not  fraught 

With  living  light,  which  flows  from  heaven. 

other  on  the  valley  sides,  will  appear  as  innumerable  spectators.  Around 
the  area  of  this  ampitheatre,  the  carriage-road,  pleasingly  curved,  runs 
more  than  a  mile, — sometimes  skirting  the  wood,  and  again  going  under 
its  canopy, — sometimes  being  inflected  by  the  Derwent's  pebbled  channel, 
and  again  allowing  a  pleasant  plantation  to  hide  the  beauty  and  increase 
the  musical  ripple  of  the  stream.— History  of  West  Durham, 


SHOTLEY  BRIDGE. 


Such  men  may  walk  the  battle  plain 
\\  here  nations'  saviours  fought,  in  vain  ; 
They  climb  the  Alps,  with  quaking  fear, 
For  what  ?  to  say  they've  ventured  there, 
But  feel  no  thrill  for  majesty 
Investing  every  feature  by  ; 
The  smiling  vale  reposed  beneath, 
As  sweet  as  joy,  and  calm  as  death  ; 
Whilst  far  above,  in  glancing  light 
The  snowpack  rears  its  stainless  white, 

Evincing  purity  is  given 

Proportioned  to  the  height  it  soars  : 

The  whiter  still,  the  nearer  heaven — 
Perfection  seeks  celestial  shores. 


Enough  !  we'll  bend  our  way  along  the  river, 

And  view  the  waters  glide,  and  fume,  and  glance, 
As  on  their  chainless  course  they  roll  for  ever, 

And  to  their  self-made  music  lilting  dance  ; 
Now  glittering  sheen,  beneath  the  blue  expanse 

Of  Heaven's  glory  in  its  noontide  glare  ; 
Now  nursing  quivering  moonbeams  as  they  prance, 

Now  mirroring  deep  the  canopy  of  air 
Begemmed  with  "  Isles  of  light,"  so  wonderful  and  fair. 


This  quiet  village  wooes  our  gaze  again, 

And  breathes  felicity  along  the  shore. 
Give  me  thine  ear,  I  will  its  tale  explain  : 

Here  (when  the  rod  of  persecution  bore 
On  Luther's  converts,  and  their  souls  no  more 

Could  bear  the  pressure  of  the  tyrant's  will) 
Fled  many  an  artizan,*  who  dug  the  ore, 

Which  fell  to  shapes  obedient  to  their  skill ; 
The  polished  sword  and  knife  flashed  from  the  busy  mill. 


*  The  history  of  Shotley  Bridge,  as  a  place  of  importance,  may  be  said 
to  have  commenced  at  the  close  of  the  seventeenth  century,  when  it  was 
colonized  by  a  few  German  refugees,  who  fled  from  their  own  country  for 
the  sake  of  religious  liberty.  The  Shotley  colonists  came  from  Solingen, 


1 8  SHOTLEY  BRIDGE. 


Here  hummed  with  hollow  roar  the  water-wheel, 

As  hissed  the  blade  upon  the  circling  stone  ; 
There  clashed  the  hammer  with  the  sparkling  steel ; 

The  sounding  anvil  rang  with  bell-like  tone. 
Skill  reared  for  memory  an  immortal  throne, 

And  Derwent's  waters  rivalled  Tagus'  fame. 
Now  the  last  anvil's  silent  and  alone ; 

The  Mill  has  an  existence  but  in  name, 
And  death  has  all  from  whence  the  deeds  of  genius  came. 


a  small  city  of  Cleve  Berg,  in  Germany,  celebrated  of  old  for  cutlery 
manufactures.     Their   names,  as  far  as   can   be   ascertained  with   any 
degree  of  certainty,  were  Oley,  Vooz,  Mole,  and  Bertram.     The  a'ccount 
of  their  choosing  this  locality  preserved  among  their  descendants  is  that 
they  sought   for   a   place  suited  to  their  purpose   in   several   parts   of 
England,  especially  near  the  metropolis  ;   but  wanting  to  conceal  the 
secret  of  their  excellence   in   tempering   and  some  other   mysteries  of 
their  art,  they  sought  a  locus  standi  on  the  Tyne,  and  not  having  found 
one  there,  they  commenced  to  explore  the  Derwent,  following  the  course 
of  the  river  until  they  reached  Shotley,  where  the  remarkable  softness  of 
the  water,  the  excellence  of  the  ironstone  in  the  neighbouring  hills,  and 
no  doubt  the   seclusion  of  the  spot,  induced    them  to  terminate  their 
pilgrimage.      Situated  thus  during    the    long  continental  wars,  having 
abundant  orders,  the  Germans,  and  especially  the  Oleys,  the  principal 
proprietors,  enjoyed  a  long-continued  flow  of  prosperity.     Their  swords 
equalled  in  flexibility,  strength,  and  elegance  the  distinguished  blades  of 
Damascus  and  Toledo.     As  an  instance  of  their  skill,  it  is  related  that 
one  of  the  sword -makers,  Robert  Oley,  who  left  Shotley  Bridge  at  the 
beginning  of  this  century,  made  a  wager  with  eight  foremen  smiths  that 
he  would  produce  within  a  fortnight  a  spring  which  should  excel  any  • 
they  might  make.     At  the  expiration  of  the  stated  time,  Oley  appeared 
at  the  place  of  meeting,  but  apparently  without  the  spring.     He  was  at 
once  declared  to  have  lost  the  wager.     Coolly  placing  his  hat  on  the 
table,  Oley  announced  that  his  spring  was  there,  and  asked  some  one 
to  take  it  out  of  the  hat.     None,  however,  complied  with  the  request, 
for  the  spring  which  lay  coiled  up.  in  the  hat  was  a  fine,  double-edged 
sword.     Oley  himself  now  took  out  the  sword,  and  then  offered  to  pay 
the  amount  of  the  wager  to  anyone  who  could  tell  which  way  the  weapon 
had  been  coiled,   but  no  one  was  able  to  do  so.     A  portion  of  the 
sword-mill  used  by  the  Germans  is  still  standing  on  the  right  bank  of  the 
'river,  near  the  bridge.     Several  of  the  houses  which  they  occupied  bore 
inscriptions  at  the  early  part  of  the  present  century,  which  told  the  cause 
of  the  sword-makers  leaving  their  fatherland,  but  the  most  of  these 
inscriptions  are  now  altogether  illegible  or  partly  effaced.     Above   the 
doorway  of  an  old  two-storied  house,  once  the  property  of  the  Oleys, 
and  now  owned  by  the  Messrs  Annandale,   there  is  a  stone  inserted, 
bearing  an  inscription  in  German,   dated   1691.      By  those  who  know 
the  language,   the  following  is  considered  to  be  a  good  translation  : — 
"  The  blessing  of  the  Lord  makes  rich  without  care,  so  long  as  you  are 


SHOTLEY  BRIDGE.  19 


Yes,  those  brave  colonists  brought  useful  arts,* 

And  through  their  genius  gave  our  valley  fame. 
Theirs  was  the  high-born  principle  that  darts 

Through  Freedom's  bosoms,  as  the  quenchless  flame 
Bursts  forth  from  Etna,  which  no  despot's  name 

Nor  threat,  nor  vengence  for  an  hour  can  mar, 
Nor  crush  into  obedience,  nor  tame  ; 

No  !  when  the  tyrant's  dust  is  scattered  far, 
Fair  Freedom's  fires  shall  burn  and  dazzle  like  a  star. 


In  that  gray  pile,  now  lit  with  Summer's  ray, 

Some  thoughtful  boy  or  hoary  Christian  sire, 
When  toil  gave  place  to  rest  with  dying  day, 

No  doubt  rehearsed  the  stories  round  the  fire, 
How  the  poor  lad  (the  mark  of  Popish  ire) 

Sang  in  the  streets  his  sweetest  hymns  for  bread, 
With  that  deep  pathos  sorrow  can  inspire, 

Till  sympathetic  Cotta  had  him  led 
Unto  her  home,  and  saw  her  young  guest  clothed  and  fed. 


industrious  in  your  vocation,  and  do  what  is  ordered  you."  At  the  close 
of  Napoleon's  era  of  wars,  the  demand  for  swords  diminished,  and  what 
was  once  a  flourishing  industry  soon  afterwards  ceased  altogether.  Many 
of  the  old  German  families  have  become  extinct,  or  are  lost  in  other 
family  names,  but  some  remain  beside  the  Oley  family,  and  in  particular 
several  families  of  the  Moles — originally  written  Moll — whose  ancestor, 
it  is  said,  appropriately  with  his  name  as  now  pronounced,  came  over 
to  this  country  covered  up  in  a  tub. — History  of  West  Durham. 

*  The  Oleys  were  sword -makers,  the  Moles  sword-grinders,  the  Vooz' 
traded  between  Germany  and  England,  and  the^  Bertrams  were  steel 
manufacturers  at  Blackhall  Mill,  about  three-and-a-half-miles  below 
Shotley  Bridge.  A  forge  of  theirs  stood  on  the  site  of  a  neat  cottage 
occupied  by  Mr.  Campbell,  the  property  of  the  very  worthy  and  enter- 
prising gentlemen,  the  Messrs.  Annandale,  on  the  left  bank  of  the 
Derwent,  just  above  their  High  Paper  Mill  ;  and  about  a  mile  further 
up  the  river,  on  the  same  side,  near  Allansford,  are  the  remains  of  an 
old  furnace,  which  probably  had  been  used  by  the  Bertrams.  The 
effect  of  the  extreme  heat  can  yet  be  traced  on  the  glazed  stones.  A 
few  yards  from  this  pile,  up  a  steep  acclivity  to  the  west,  are  three 
minous  kilns,  where  the  ironstone  appears  to  have  been  put  through  its 
first  process — roasting.  The  shape  of  the  furnace  had  been  hexagonal, 
narrowing  towards  the  top  ;  that  of  the  kilns  round,  narrowing  towards 
the  bottom. 


SHOTLEY  BRIDGE. 


Or  how  the  hero  of  immortal  mind, 

In  solitary  grandeur  stood  before 
The  mighty  throng  at  Worms,  whose  ranks  combined 

The  Emperor,  Judge,  Duke,  Prince,  Ambassador, 
Magnificent  and  awful,  yet  he  bore 

The  dauntless  brow  of  changeless  Truth  e'en  there  ; 
Disclosed  he  then  his  eagle  thoughts  to  soar, 

And  left  a  Christian  conqueror  to  share 
A  lot  the  glorious  sons  of  Light  must  ever  dare. 


Thou  know'st,  my  friend,  of  Luther,  and  may'st  deem 

Those  German  Christians  nursed  his  thoughts,  and  fanned 
Their  patriot  fires  when  he  became  their  theme 

In  turning  to  their  much-loved  fatherland  ; 
For  home  has  aye  a  power  at  her  command — 

A  witchery  about  her  naught  excels  : 
Her  mountains  are  the  loveliest  that  stand 

Beneath  high  heaven ;  her  woodlands,  streams,  and  dells, 
And  maidens  ever  wear  a  thousand  starry  spells. 


A  halo  cinctures  the  enchanting  spot 

Where  we  are  born,  which,  as  the  years  roll  on, 
Gathers  in  radiance  whatsoe'er  our  lot, — 

The  humble  cot,  the  palace  or  the  throne. 
If  thou  hast  wandered  in  another  zone, 

Far  from  thy  native  hills  and  valleys  fair, 
This  truth  thou'st  learnt,  which  death  can  blot  alone 

From  out  thy  breast,  and  thought  the  sunshine  there 
Less  cheering  than  the  clouds  known  to  thy  country  dear. 


Hence,  this  is  fitting  passion  to  disclose, 

For  Pity  wakes  and  thrills  thy  breast  and  mine 
When  poring  on  the  exiles'  wrongs  and  woes, 

Who  wept,  but  dared  not  seek  their  lovely  Rhine ; 
Their  sorrows  were  not  fruitless  :  a  divine 

And  holy  purpose  was  their  guiding  light ; 
The  bud  they  cherished  has  become  a  vine, 

Which  breathes  to  every  clime  a  wild  delight, 
And  every  home  may  know  its  comfort-giving  might. 


SHOTLEY  BRIDGE. 


Come  with  me  to  yon  bridge  that  spans  the  flood, 

For  here  a  charming  landscape  meets  the  eye, 
Where  oft  in  adoration  I  have  stood 

And  listened  to  the  twilight  breezes  sigh 
Like  human  voices  soft  and  feelingly ; 

And  mused  upon  the  graceful  trees  reclining, 
Wooing  the  gentle  waters  gliding  by, 

Like  maids  with  loose  locks  o'er  a  mirror  shining, 
A  conquest  of  some  heart  with  woman's  skill  designing. 


Behold  that  channelled  rock  !  could  sculptor's  art 

Copy  its  rude  sublimity  ?  where  brawl 
The  twisting  currents  ;  with  delirious  start 

They  fuming  leap  the  tiny  waterfall. 
List  the  soft  echoes  to  each  other  call, 

The  hollow  moaning,  and  the  hissing  sound  : 
Well  might'st  thou  think  the  elements  were  all 

Peopled  with  being,  passionate  but  bound, 
And  harmless  in  their  strife,  yet  solemn  and  profound. 


I  would  that  thou  had'st  lingered  here  with  me, 

When  winter  walked  relentless  through  the  wood, 
An'd  seen  the  snow  glance  on  each  leafless  tree  ; 

The  sunbeams  darting  through  the  fissured  cloud, 
Falling  upon  the  feathered  branch  and  flood, 

(jiving  innumerable  mimic  stars  to  earth, 
Which  smiled  and  glanced  in  seeming  gratitude, 

Thanking  their  parent  for  their  radiant  birth, 
Thy  feeling  heart,  I  know,  in  joyance  had  gone  forth. 


The  sounds  which  thou  to  rapture  fire, 

And  o'er  the  valley  glide, 
Flow  from  yon  heavenward  pointing  spire 

Upon  the  green  hill  side. 


St.  Cuthbert's  bells,  as  shadows  creep 

Along  the  twilight  lea, 
Make  glad  the  sombre  hour,  and  steep 

The  ear  in  melody. 


22  SHOTLEY  BRIDGE. 


Thou'st  felt  the  magic  power  of  sound  ;- 
When  first  those  bells,  'tis  said, 

Rushed  on  the  limpid  air  around, 
And  woke  the  sunny  glade, 

The  lark,  in  her  aerial  home, 
Poised  as  the  humming  bird 

Above  the  honeysuckle's  bloom, 
And  charmed  to  silence  heard. 


The  thrush  and  linnet  ceased  their  lay, 
The  black-bird's  echoing  strain 

No  longer  trembled  thro'  the  spray, 
Or  quavered  o'er  the  plain. 

The  hare  from  out  her  native  dell 
Came  skipping  to  the  sounds, 

Nor  felt  the  fear-inspired  spell 
Of  huntsmen  and  of  hounds. 

The  troutlet,  to  the  trembling  roll, 
Which  o'er  the  waters  played, 

Disported  in  his  favourite  pool 
As  if  by  magic's  aid. 

But  thou  and  I  must  part,  my  friend, 

Thy  patience  serves  thee  well ; 
When  next  thou  would'st  thy  soul  unbend 
From  meaner  things,  oh  !  may  it  end 
As  calm  as  this.     Farewell ! 


Iballgartb.* 


ijOME,  stir  my  soul,  thou  welcome  Melancholy — 
Friend  and  inspirer  of  my  tenderest  strains, 
Companion  of  my  wand'rings,  free  from  folly, 
Through  the  deep  dells,  by  waterfalls,  o'er  plains, 
Where  the  enchantress,  Solitude,  remains, 
And  wields  her  spell-fraught  wand  o'er  those  who  seek 
Her  throne  amid  the  flowers  of  her  domains  ; 
Where  Echo  talks  her  lore,  and  warblers  speak 
A  language  full  of  soul — Love's  pathos  never  weak. 


*  Hallgarth  is  the  name  of  that  central  part  of  the  parish  of 
Pittington  which  was  anciently  called  the  Manor  (manerium)  of  the 
Monks  of  Durham,  to  whom  the  whole  parish  belonged.  It  was 
usually  held  in  the  Prior's  hands  as  the  demesne  of  the  A'ibey, 
instead  of  being  leased  to  tenants,  as  other  parts  of  the  parish  were. 
In  it  the  Parish  Church  is  situated,  which  is  consequently  known  in 
the  localijty  as  Hallgarth  Church,  the  parish  itself  being  also  often 
spoken  of  as  Hallgarth  parish.  The  name  is  doubtless  derived  from 
"  Prior's  Hall,"  which  formerly  stood  in  a  plot  of  ground,  now  a 
garden,  north  of  the  Churchyard,  "  garth"  meaning  the  surrounding 
enclosure.  This  "  Prior's  Hall "  was  a  building  for  the  occasional 
residence  of  the  Prior  of  Durham,  and  for  holding  of  courts,  with 
chambers  for  monks,  and  with  extensive  farm  buildings  round  it. 
Ruins  of  the  Hall  built  in  the  sixteenth  century  by  Hugh  White- 
head,  the  last  Prior  and  first  Dean  of  Durham,  remained,  in  the 
aforesaid  plot  of  ground,  which  is  still  called  "  Prior's  Garth,"  till 
recent  times.  Hallgarth  Church,  which  is  one  of  the  most  interesting 
in  the  county,  may  be  concluded  to  stand  on  the  site  of  an  earlier 
Saxon  one ;  for  there  can  be  little  doubt  that  Pittington  was  an 


24  HALLGARTH. 


Oft,  Melancholy,  hast  thou  tinged  my  thought,   , 
In  boyish  musings  by  this  sombre  pile ; 
When  the  rich  landscape  was  with  beauty  fraught, 
Whose  starry  flowers  seemed  on  me  to  smile 
As  creatures  sensitive  whom  pleasures  guile  ; 
Or  hang  their  heads  with  mine  on  pensive  woe, 
And,  thrilling,  weep  their  dewy  tears  the  while, 
In  kindred  pity  for  some  friend  laid  low, 
To  whom  fond  memory  clings,  and  never  shall  forego. 


Years  long,  not  many,  o'er  my  head  have  passed 
Since  on  this  scene  of  youth,  hope,  sorrow,  bliss, 
I  gazed.     In  other  lands  Iv'e  roved,  nor  cast 
My  eye  on  aught  that  charmed  it  like  to  this  ; 
The  stream,  whose  trembling  waves  the  flowers  kiss 
With  lips  of  redolency,  fair  with  rays, — 
The  Church,  throned  on  a  mound  of  loveliness, — 
The  tombs,  where  soft  light  falls,  and  Pity  strays, — 
The  meads  and  pastures, — beautiful  beyond  all  praise  ; 


ancient  Saxon  settlement  long  before  the  Norman  Conquest,  and 
before  the  monks  of  Lindisfarne  settled  finally  at  Durham,  and  built 
their  Abbey  there.  But  of  such  early  church  no  traces  remain,  or 
at  any  rate  have  been  so  far  discovered, — unless  it  be  a  sun-dial, 
now  built  into  the  southern  wall  of  the  Church,  which  has  been 
pronounced  by  competent  authority  to  be  Saxon.  The  earliest  part 
of  the  present  Church  may  be  assigned  to  a  date  not  later  than 
A.D.  noo.  But  it  has  been  added  to  and  otherwise  altered  at 
various  later  times.  The  north  aisle,  with  its  beautiful  round 
Norman  arches,  may  have  been  added  about  A.D.  1150  ;  the  pointed 
arches  of  the  south  aisle,  in  what  is  called  the  Early  English  style, 
mark  a  later  addition.  Till  the  year  1846,  the  original  Norman 
chancel  arch  remained,  beyond  which  was  a  long  chancel  of  the 
Early  English  period.  But  in  the  year  above  mentioned,  restoration 
(often  complained  of  by  antiquaries  as  demolition)  was  undertaken. 
The  old  chancel  was  pulled  down,  the  nave  and  aisles  were  prolonged 
eastward  to  the  extent  of  one  additional  arch  on  each  side,  a  new 
chancel  arch  was  made,  and  the  present  short  chancel  erected 
beyond  it.  Thus  the  original  proportions  of  the  Church  were 
destroyed,  and  interesting  features  may  have  been  swept  away. 
But  it  is  a  Church  both  beautiful  and  interesting  still,  the  arcade 
of  the  northern  aisle,  with  the  zigzag  mouldings  of  its  arches,  and 
the  unique  spiral  ornamentation  of  its  columns,  being  admired  by 
all  beholders  as  peculiarly  effective.  For  its  venerable  beauty,  no 
less  than  for  the  associations  that  surround  it,  well  worthy  is  old 
Hallgarth  Church  of  the  reverent  affection  with  which  it  is  regarded 
by  the  parishioners. 


HALLGAK'I'II.  25 


Nursing  the  flocks,  which  roam  and  rest  at  will, — 
The  distant  wood,  which  lifts  its  emerald  head 
Towards  the  heavens, — the  high  familiar  hill 
(Once  of  the  Druid  Chiefs  the  haunt,  'tis  said), —  . 
These  tell  me  of  my  boyhood,  and  upbraid 
My  mind  with  passions  of  Youth's  gushing  spring, 
Breathing  of  Hope  and  Love  still  unbetrayed 
By  stern  experience  ; — but  whate'er  they  bring, 
Alternate  joy  and  woe,  my  soul  shall  to  them  cling. 

There,  o'er  the  undulating  pastures  fair,* 
Which  rise  like  visions  of  some  realm  of  light 
Within  my  bosom,  lies  the  footpath  where 
Full  oft  I've  trod,  and,  far  as  aching  sight 
Could  reach  into  the  blue,  have  traced  the  flight 
Of  my  heart's  warbler  in  his  wanderings ; 
And  quaffed  his  spirit,  fraught  with  wild  delight, 
Till  I  beheld  earth's  monarchs  as  but  things — 
Slaves  to  Ambition's  wiles — the  shepherds  as  true  kings. 

Those  fields  to  me  are  as  a  fairy  dwelling, 
Haunted  by  innocent  and  lovely  forms, — 
The  mirror  of  my  childhood's  dreams,  revealing 
Hopes,  which  have  faded,  but  retain  some  charms 
With  sorrow  blended  :  so  the  sunbeam  warms 
And  gilds  the  darkling  clouds  on  which  it  plays. 
The  flowers  I  loved  have  still  their  hues  and  balms, 
The  rivulet  its  chime,  the  birds  their  lays, 
And  Beauty  still  is  here  which  cheered  mine  earlier  days. 

Looking  abroad,  scarce  half  a  league  away, 
My  wandering  eye  falls  on  the  Haunted  Lane,f 
Whence  walked  the  Lady  in  her  white  array, 
And  shrieked  (as  story  tells)  as  if  in  pain, 
Till  Echo  caught  the  sorrow  of  her  strain, 
And  bore  it  onward  through  the  shadowy  night ; 
And  maidens,  youths,  and  women  tried  in  vain 
To  hush  their  fears  : — they  trembled  with  affright, 
And  talked  with  voice  subdued  o'er  cottage  fires  bright 

*  Sherburn  Pastures. 

f  "  The   Long-Peace-Lady  Lane."      About   fifty  years  ago,  the 
people  living  in  the  vicinity  of  Hallgarth,  who  were  more  superstitous 


26  HALLOA  A'  771. 


And  yonder,  where  the  curling  smoke  ascends 
From  out  the  valley,  stands  the  clattering  Mill.* 
The  murder  of  a  gentle  maiden  lends, 
Though  long  ago,  a  solemn  memory  still 
Unto  the  spot ;  whilst  here  the  glittering  rill 
(Sweet  though  its  murmers  otherwise  would  seem) 
Breathes  to  the  ear,  the  tree,  the  vale,  the  hill, 
The  anguish  of  her  dying  groan,  till  stream, 
And  winds,  and  human  heart,  are  pregnant  with  the  theme. 


There  stands  the  dwelling  of  my  father's  friend,  f 
Encompassed  by  a  growth  of  fine  old  trees 
(Where  noisy  rooks  and  chattering  starlings  blend 
Their  notes  on  the  morn  and  evening  breeze), 
And  walls  whose  blushing  cherries  erst  could  please 
My  sight,  and  lure  my  boyish  hands  to  crime. 
How  changed  the  scene  !     The  man  who  loved  not  ease 
Has  paid  off  Nature's  debt — is  done  with  Time, 
And  he,  the  wanton  boy,  is  now  in  manhood's  prime. 


then  than  now,  were  much  alarmed  by  cries  of  "  murder"  coming 
from  the  direction  of  this  lane.  Tradition  says  that  a  lady  was 
murdered  here,  but  when,  how,  and  by  whom,  we  know  not ;  and 
that  her  ghost  frequently  appeared  near  the  spot  where  she  had 
suffered  death  (and  had  been  seen  by  many  persons),  as  a  protest 
that  her  blood  was  yet  unavenged.  This  story  was  so  thoroughly 
believed  that  if  some  mischievous  fellow  who  had  nerve  enough  went 
to  and  shouted  "  murder  "  from  this  lane  late  at  night,  or  very  early 
in  the  morning,  the  pits  in  its  immediate  vicinity  were  laid  idle  for 
the  ensuing  day :  the  pitmen  utterly  refusing  to  go  to  work,  believing 
that  should  they  do  so,  some  great  calamity  would  befall  them. 

*  Hallgarth  Mill,  about  half-a-mile  to  the  west  of  the  Church, 
where  Mary  Ann  Westrop  was  murdered  by  her  fellow-servant, 
Thomas  Clark.  Touching  this  sad  event,  which  caused  such  a  pain- 
ful excitement  throughout  the  North  of  England,  and  particularly 
in  the  district  where  it  occurred,  a  plain  marble  tablet  was  erected 
by  subscription  in  one  of  the  windows  of  the  north  aisle  of  Pittington 
Church,  bearing  the  following  inscription: — "  In  memory  of  Mary 
Ann  Westrop,  who  in  the  i8th  year  of  her  age,  on  the  evening  of 
Sunday,  the  8th  of  August,  1830  (during  the  absence  of  her  master 
and  mistress),  was  cruelly  murdered  at  Hallgarth  Mill,  in  this  parish, 
by  a  man,  her  fellow-servant,  who  was  executed  for  the  offence  at 
Durham,  on  Monday,  the  28th  of  February,  1831." 

t  The  residence  of  the  late  Henry  Newby,  Esq.,  an  enterprising 
agriculturist,  who  farmed  Hallgarth  for  many  years,  under  the 
Shepherdsons. 


//.///.  a  A  />•/•//.  27 


Nearer  the  hallowed  ground  whereon  I  tread 
With  tombstones  studded,  verdant  through  Decay, 
Above  the  trees  a  mansion*  rears  its  head, 
And  calls  up  memories  of  another  day  ; 
A  reverend  manf  before  me  stands,  and  gray 
With  many  winters,  wise  (evincing  cares), 
Humane,  and  humble,  glowing  with  the  ray 
Religion  flashes  :  on  his  brow  he  bears 
The  deep,  broad  stamp  of  Thought — his  eyes  are  filled  with  tears. 

Too  feeble  now  (he  prays,  but  weeps  the  while) 
To  pour  the  Spirit  of  his  God  o'er  men  ; 
The  voice,  whose  accents  rang  through  every  aisle, 
And  many  hearts,  I  ween,  and  not  in  vain, 
Is  lost  in  sighs,  nor  shall  return  again, 
For  Death,  the  dread  destroyer,  lingers  by  : 
A  day  and  he  shall  know  no  more  of  pain. 
Soft  be  his  pillowed  rest !  he  shall  not  die 
If  Virtue,  Honour,  Truth,  e'er  blossom  in  the  sky  ! 

Ere  yet  I  enter  thee,  old  hoary  pile, 
Dim  with  the  dust  of  ages,  let  me  muse 
A  moment  'mong  the  tombs,  while  yet  the  smile 
Of  daylight  shows  the  landscape's  glorious  hues. 
Here  sleepeth  one,{  who  knew  him  ne'er  refuse 
The  honour  due  the  noble  dead  :  his  mind 
Was  fraught  with  that  mild  moving  power,  which  wooes 
And  draws  the  softer  passions  from  his  kind, 
Which,  twined  in  tender  cords,  true  friendships  firmly  bind. 

*  Hallgarth  Vicarage. 

+  The  Rev.  Dr.  James  Miller,  Vicar,  who  died  about  the  year  1850. 

£  "  In  memory  of  Thomas  Robinson,  Sherburn,  gentleman,  aetat 
35,  obit  June  28th,  1867."  Mr.  Robinson  bravely  sacrificed  his  life 
in  a  gallant,  yet  unhappily  vain,  attempt  to  rescue  a  drowning  boy 
below  Kepier,  near  Durham.  Born  of  highly  respectable  parents, 
Mr.  Robinson's  education  was  the  liberal  one  of  a  gentleman — 
without  reference  to  any  particular  business  or  profession.  He  was 
first  placed  under  the  tuition  of  the  Rev.  Isaac  Todd,  Vicar  of 
Shincliffe  ;  afterwards,  at  the  great  school  of  Repton,  and,  ultimately, 
with  a  distinguished  clergyman  in  Derbyshire,  About  manhood,  he 
studied  farming  with  Mr.  Septimus  Smith,  of  Norham,  as  a  useful 
preparation  for  managing  his  own  landed  property  at  Sherburn. 
But  of  retiring  and  studious  habits  at  all  times,  he  was  perhaps 
more  frequently  within  doors  than  without,  and  became,  and  ever 


28  HALLGARTH. 


The  hands,  which  moulder  in  their  kindred  dust, 
Devoid  of  cunning,  lost  to  passion's  fire, 
Have  swept  yon  organ's  pealing  keys  till  burst 
Sweet  music's  spirit  forth,  which  e'er  inspires 
The  breast  with  joy,  as  Jubal's  heavenly  lyre 
Gave  birth  to  rapture  never  felt  before. 
Enough  !  since  listening  ears  I  would  not  tire  : 
Sweet  be  the  bliss  that  bids  his  spirit  soar 
Through  love-enchanted  skies  which  glory's  radiance  pour. 


Mysterious  memory  of  one*  who  shined, 
Perchance  of  Valour,  in  the  olden  time  ; 
Whose  deeds  of  chivalry  may  have  been  twined 
In  graceful  numbers  and  in  flowing  rhyme, — 
Time-shrouded  now,  and  lost,  howe'er  sublime. 
Thy  right  hand  grasps  the  sword,  thy  left  the  shield, — 
Which  point  Imagination  to  thy  prime, 
When  passion's  frenzy  seized  thee  on  the  field, 
Where  many  a  foeman  fell  ere  thou  to  death  didst  yield. 


afterwards  continued,  an  ardent  lover  of  literature — classic  and 
romantic — English  and  French — ancient  and  modern.  One  of  his 
accomplishments — and  perhaps  the  dearest  to  him — was  music.  He 
studied  it  with  the  greatest  ardour,  and  attained  no  ordinary  power 
in  the  execution  of  the  masterpieces  of  the  great  German  and  Italian 
schools,  both  on  the  piano  and  organ.  His  command  of  the  latter 
instrument  arose  partly  from  early  study  under  the  celebrated 
Cooper,  and  partly  from  his  love  of  sacred  music— his  turn  of  mind, 
in  fact,  being  essentially  religious.  He  was  a  lover  of  nature  as  well 
as  of  art,  and  besides  the  noblest  landscapes  of  our  own  country, 
had  repeatedly  visited  the  classic  beauties  of  Italy,  and  the  Alpine 
grandeurs  of  Switzerland. 

*  On  the  north  side  of  the  south  aisle  is  the  recumbent  figure  of  a 
Knight,  placed  here  for  better  preservation  (for  he  used  to  lie  outside 
the  Church)  by  the  present  much  and  deservedly  respected  Vicar, 
the  Rev.  J.  Barmby.  It  has  been  suggested  to  us,  by  an  undoubted 
authority,  that  in  supposing  the  recumbent  Knight  to  have  been  a 
Saxon  who  probably  fought  against  the  Conqueror,  we  appear  to 
have  allowed  our  imagination  too  bold  a  flight.  This  view  is  un- 
doubtedly correct,  for  the  character  of  the  armour  proves  him  to 
have  been  a  Knight  of  a  period  considerably  later  than  the  time  of 
the  Norman  Conquest.  From  the  bearings  of  the  shield,  so  far  as 
we  can  make  them  out,  probably  he  was  a  Lumley,  or  one  of  the 
Fitz-Marmadukes,  who  were  cognate  with  the  Lumleys,  and  bore 
the  same  arms.  But  nothing  is  known  of  him  beyond  what  may  be 
thus  conjectured. 


HALLGARTH.  29 


Wast  thou  a  leader  in  the  ranks  of  death — 
The  Wellington  of  some  far  distant  age  ? 
And  hardy  warriors,  led  o'er  mead  and  heath, 
Didst  for  the  right  a  furious  warfare  wage  ? 
Or  did  Ambition's  wiles  thy  soul  engage, 
And  send  thee  onward  to  a  goal  of  shame  ? 
Perhaps  thy  deeds  may  deck  some  Saxon  page, 
Or  thou  mightst  win  with  William's  host  a  name—- 
Thou answerest  naught,  but  breathst  thou  honour  won  and  fame. 


The  spirits  of  the  past  breathe  o'er  my  brain, 
The  blue-eyed  Saxon  's  in  my  vision  glassed, 
Like  exhumed  gem,  on  which  the  light  again 
Shone,  giving  't  all  the  splendour  of  the  past. 
The  labours  of  his  skilful  hand  are  cast 
In  ruins  'neath  my  feet,  and,  hidden,  lie 
A  shattered  wreck  : — tombs,  pillars,  sculpture  vast, 
Which  once  in  grandeur  rose  to  greet  the  eye, 
And  charm  and  woo  the  gaze  of  pilgrims  passing  by. 


There  is  a  melancholy  in  the  change, 
Which  breathes  the  mockery  of  mortal  sway  ; 
The  eye  o'er  vanished  centuries  may  range, 
And  then  behold  but  blossom  and  decay. 
Thrpnes  rise  as  by  a  magic  hand  to-day, 
And  flourish  (for  a  little  space,  I  ween), 
Until  some  stronger  monarch,  bent  on  prey, 
Imbued  with  all  the  fires  of  conquest  keen, 
Lays  waste  the  halls  of  pride,  nor  weepeth  o'er  the  scene. 


And  so,  great  Norman,  in  thy  pride  and  power 
Thou  shiverest  in  his  grasp  a  Harold's  sword ; 
The  Saxon  dynasty,  this  luckless  hour, 
Was  blasted,  ne'er  more  to  be  restored. 
Here,  Conqueror  of  these  islands  !  at  thy  word 
These  walls,  uncrumbled  yet,  arose  on  high, 
And  stand  among  thy  monuments  abroad  ; 
Thy  deeds  are  with  us  yet :  the  musing  eye 
Tells  to  the  glowing  mind  thine  immortality. 


30  HALLGARTH. 


Old  Church  !  though  vanished  is  thine  early  glory, — 
The  harmony  of  arch  and  column  gone, 
(The  Modern's  hand,  in  trying  to  restore  thee 
To  former  beauty,  finds  its  skill  outdone), 
Thy  faded  frescoes  now  but  remnants  shown, — 
Beyond  all  sacred  piles  I  love  thee  yet ! 
'Tis  not  the  memory  of  youth  alone 
That  knits  me  to  thee,  for  my  cheeks  are  wet 
From  thoughts  of  some  who  sleep — I  never  may  forget. 


Go  the  jfain?  Jfielbs  of 


JO  the  fairy  fields  of  light 

Let  us  go  with  wild  delight, 
Where  the  fragrance  of  the  beauty-beaming  flower 

fills  the  air ; 
And  the  varied  songs  that  flow 
From  the  woodlands  as  they  blow 
Will  supplant  the  surly  sorrow  and  dispense  the  dying  care. 

By  the  rippling  rills  we'll  rove, 

Give  our  choicest  thoughts  to  love, 
And  pause  where  placid  purity  forms  Nature's  mirror  there, 

And  the  speckled  beauties  glide 

Through  the  deep  pellucid  tide  : 

Here  we'll  quaff  with  every  sense  the  light  that  leaves  the 
landscape  fair : 

View  the  sombre  shade  that  dwells 

On  the  beauteous  heather  fells, 
List  the  balmy  zephyrs  whisper  with  a  soft  aeolian  strain, 

Blended  with  the  warblings  wild 

Of  the  lark,  sweet  music's  child, 
Who  pours  his  melting  raptures  o'er  the  pleasure-thrilling  brain. 

Tis  no  low  ambition  now 

Which  wakes  the  bosom's  glow, 
In  the  grandeur  that  surrounds  us  shines  the  majesty  of  God, 

From  the  sun's  refulgent  light, 

And  the  moon  and  stars  of  night, 
To  the  smallest  ray  that  twinkles  on  the  dewdrop  or  the  flood. 


32  TO    THE  FAIRY  FIELDS  OF  LIGHT. 


In  the  sunset's  waves  of  gold, 

On  the  snowy  cloudlet's  fold — 
A  fleecy  couch  for  Angels  who  would  view  the  deeds  of  earth — 

In  the  crag,  the  tree,  the  flower, 

There's  infinity  of  power, 

And  a  splendour  of  construction  which  denotes  their  heavenly 
birth. 


Let  us  woo  thee,  lovely  Sneep,* 

Where  the  solemn  shadows  creep, 
And  the  green-robed  rocky  ramparts  rise  for  liberty  a  throne  : 

Here  the  twisting  Derwent's  seen, 

Singing  praises  of  the  scene, 
Dallying,  lingering,  as  if  loth  to  leave  the  glowing  glories  shone. 


Now  the  frenzied  eye  may  gaze, 

And  the  soul  expand  with  praise — 
The  unutterable  something  which  we  ne'er  can  realise  : 

It  will  not  die,  but  burns 

As  the  light  of  thought  returns, 
And  like  a  rainbow  blends  its  hues,  and  fades  again  to  rise. 


Here  Carrf  has  tuned  his  lyre, 

Whose  soul  thou  didst  inspire 
With  the  magic  of  thy  beauty,  till  he  could  not  choose  but  sing  : 

His  flowing  numbers  glide 

In  the  soundings  of  the  tide, 
And  are  deathless  as  its  melody,  and  liquid  as  its  ring. 


*  To  those  who  have  not  seen  this  beautiful  natural  picture  which  lies 
on  the  Derwent  about  a  mile  above  Allansford,  a  description  would  be 
altogether  vain ;  and  those  who  have  not  seen  it  would  derive  little  benefit 
from  any  pen  and  ink  sketch,  however  well  it  might  be  drawn. 

t  John  Carr,  LL.D.  of  Muggleswick,  author  of  an  ode  to  the 
Derwent,  in  which  he  speaks  of  the  love  he  bore  the  Sneep. 


TO   THE  FAIRY  FIELDS   O/-'  LIGHT.  33 


But  where'er  the  eyes  repose, 

In  legions  charms  disclose, 
And  every  sound  that  trembles  on  the  ear  awakes  a  joy  : 

The  song-bird's  warblings  clear 

Are  softer,  sweeter  here, 
Than  those  which  other  groves  reveal,  or  rain  adown  the  sky. 


Strange  imagination  sprung, 

If  story  be  not  wrong, 
From  the  eye  of  genius  falling  on  that  rocky  towering  steep  : 

Lough*  gazed,  and  lo  !  arose 

A  "  Milo  "  with  his  woes,f 
And  thou  sharest  the  immortality  of  both,  enchanting  Sneep. 


*  John  Graham  Lough,  the  celebrated  sculptor,  was  born  at  Greenhead, 
about  a  mile  from  the  Sneep.  After  serving  an  apprenticeship  as  a 
stonemason  at  Shotley  Field,  and  being  engaged  as  a  journeyman  in 
the  erection  of  the  Newcastle  Literary  and  Philosophical  Society's 
Library,  he  betook  himself  to  London,  to  push  his  fortune  in  the  world 
of  art.  His  journey  forms  one  of  the  most  romantic  episodes  in  his  life. 
He  persuaded  the  captain  of  a  collier  who  was  just  sailing  for  London 
to  take  him  on  board,  offering  him  a  guinea  for  his  passage  money,  but  on 
their  arrival  the  captain  refused  to  take  a  farthing.  At  Lough's  request, 
the  captain  took  him  to  the  British  Museum,  where  in  company  with  this 
good,  kind,  rough  companion,  he  saw  what  he  was  panting  to  find,  the 
"  Elgin  Marbles."  The  captain  insisted  on  Lough  returning  and  sleeping 
on  board  his  vessel  as  long  as  it  was  detained  in  the  docks,  finally  urging 
him  not  to  remain  in  such  a  wilderness  place  as  London,  adding,  "  it 
shall  cost  you  nothing  to  go  back  with  me  to  canny  Newcastle."  After 
Lough  went  first  to  London,  Mr.  Silvertop  wished  him  to  go  to  Rome 
to  study  the  models  of  the  great  Italian  sculptors,  and  offered  to  defray 
his  expenses  when  in  Rome.  Lough,  however,  refused  to  go,  and  said 
that  "  he  would  not  serve  a  second  apprenticeship."  Mr.  Silvertop  took 
offence  at  Lough's  refusal  to  go  to  Rome,  and  left  him  to  his  unaided 
resources.  It  was,  doubtless,  during  this  period,  when  no  hand  was 
stretched  out  to  help  him,  that  he  suffered  the  terrible  privations  touchingly 

t  It  is  said  that  Lough  got  his  conception  of  "  Milo  "  through  gazing 
on  the  stupendous  rocks  at  the  Sneep.  Where  the  association  exists 
might  puzzle  a  philosopher,  but  people  of  a  strongly  imaginative  eye 
behold,  on  looking  into  the  fire-grate,  most  remarkable  forms — firekin^s, 
"witches  skimming  dizzy  crags,"  angels,  devils,  mountains,  chasms, 
valleys,  &c.,  which  to  a  duller  eye  is  but  a  fire;  as  "a  primrose  by  a 
river's  brim  "  was  to  Peter  Bell,  of  Wordsworth's  muse,  but  a  yellow 
primrose,  nothing  more.  Alas  !  for  our  dreams  of  the  human  family 
arriving  at  a  higher  state  of  perfection.  This  but  describes  the  state  of 
apathy  into  which  thousands  of  our  brothers  and  sisters  have  fallen. 


34  TO    THE  FAIRY  FIELDS  OF  LIGHT. 


But  alas  !  we  cannot  dwell 

Always  'neath  beauty's  spell, — 
The  curse  thrown  over  mortals  to  its  mission  still  is  true : 

The  evening  turneth  gray, 

Duty  beckons  us  away, 
So,  to  all  that  yields  us  rapture,  with  regret,  we  bid  adieu  ! 


alluded  to  by  Haydon.  After  a  time,  however,  it  seems  that  Mr, 
Silvertop's  heart  misgave  him,  and  he  called  on  Lough  as  he  was  engaged 
in  his  room  sculpturing  his  Milo.  Mr.  Silvertop  addressed  him  with  the 
familiar  words,  "  Well, .  Lough,  how  are  you  coming  on?"  Lough 
answered,  "  Oh,  very  well,  sir  ;  I  am  working  away  here,  and  living  on 
bread  and  water,  as  I  have  been  accustomed  to  do."  After  this  a  five- 
pound  note  was  sent  to  Lough,  by  or  doubtless  through  Mr.  Silvertop. 
While  Lough  was  thus  engaged,  a  circumstance  occurred,  which  threatened 
to  be  the  forerunner  of  his  ruin,  which  proved,  however,  to  be  the 
turning  point  in  his  fortune  His  room  being  too  small  for  the  sculpturing 
of  Milo,  he  could  not  get  to  the  upper  part  of  the  statue  so  as  to  be  able 
to  use  his  chisel  with  sufficient  freedom.  What  was  he  to  do  in  such  a 
case  ?  He  acted  like  Alexander  the  Great,  who  cut  the  Gordian  knot 
when  he  could  not  untie  it.  With  the  recklessness  of  a  bold  genius  reduced 
to  desperation,  he  actually  broke  through  the  ceiling  of  the  room  above 
him,  and  made  for  himself  sufficient  space  to  work  at  his  statue.  Hue 
and  cry  was  instantly  raised  against  him  for  this  infraction  of  the  rights 
of  property.  The  owner  began  to  take  steps  for  instituting  legal 
proceedings,  and  even  consulted  Mr.  Brougham  (afterwards  Lord 
Brougham)  for  this  purpose.  Struck  with  the  singularity  of  the  account 
which  was  given  him,  Brougham  went  to  look  at  the  Milo,  and  see  for 
himself  what  Lough  had  done.  On  his  return  from  viewing  Milo, 
Brougham  told  some  of  his  friends  that  he  had  witnessed  the  strangest  sight 
that  ever  came  before  him  during  his  whole  life,  and  narrated  the 
circumstances.  The  news  of  the  strange  affair  soon  spread,  and,  before 
long,  the  whole  street  where  Lough's  room  was  situated  was  lined  with 
the  carriages  of  ladies  and  gentlemen,  who  had  come  to  view  the  place, 
and  to  see  Milo.  A  subscription  was  set  on  foot  for  Lough  (to  which 
Mr.  Silvertop  would  doubtless  contribute  handsomely),  the  owner  of  the 
upper  room  was  paid  for  the  damage  done  to  his  property,  and  the  law 
proceedings  were  staid.  Lough  was  thus  relieved  from  his  dreadful 
privations,  and,  through  orders  which  soon  came  in  to  him  for  different 
pieces  of  sculpture,  the  basis  of  his  fortune  was  laid.  The  house  where 
he  modelled  his  Milo  has  been  pulled  down,  and  the  spot  of  his  early 
struggles  and  indefatigable  industry  is  now  consecrated  by  having  a 
Church  built  on  it. — History  of  West  Durham, 


Written  on  IReabtna 
'0  poems. 


N  roaming  through  this  varied  world  of  ours, 
'Mong  shadowy  glens,    by  bubbling    stream    or 

fountain, 

Or  where  reflective  solitude  embowers, 
Or  tempests  howl  across  the  herbless  mountain, 
Or  holding  high  communion  with  the  flowers, 
Or  listening  to  the  wild  waves  hollow  sounding, 
With  what  a  majesty  they  touch  the  feelings, — 
How  chastely  then  the  soul  drinks  their  revealings  ! 


Then  looking  on  the  sky,  whose  mighty  grandeur 

Defies  the  power  of  mortal  mind  for  ever, 

To  comprehend  how  worlds  on  worlds  do  wander 

Through  trackless  space,  directed  by  their  Giver 

To  an  immortal  goal,  where  not  the  hand  or 

Infinite  will  is  seen  ;  then  turning  to  the  river, 

Behold  its  glassy  face  glide  to  the  ocean, 

Say  dost  thy  soul  not  thrill  with  deep  emotion  ? 


36  SHELLEY'S  POEMS. 


Look  on  the  leaves  which  come  not  till  the  season 
Of  genial  Spring,  whose  mild  rains  steep  the  earth, 
And  call  the  flow'rets  from  their  ice-bound  prison 
In  blushing  fragrance  to  their  annual  birth. 
Then  Summer  comes  like  thing  endowed  with  reason, 
And  draws  the  blue  snake  from  his  dark  cave  forth  ; 
Then  Autumn  reaps  the  harvest  of  the  sun, 
Completing  what  her  sister  Spring  begun. 


The  Nightingale  to  night  and  solitude 
Pours  out  his  soul,  which  trembles  over  earth ; 
The  laverock,  from  his  watch-tower  in  the  cloud 
His  flowing  thrilling  song  of  praise  sends  forth  ; 
The  blackbird,  piping  in  the  echoing  wood, 
The  thrush  and  linnets  warbling,  give  birth 
To  soft  and  tender  passion,  and  are  fraught 
With  food  for  wildest,  sweetest,  dearest  thought. 


"  The  golden  glowworm  in  her  dewy,  dell," 

The  insect  tribe  of  many  a  beauteous  hue, 

Which  charm  the  eye  and  bid  the  bosom  swell, 

The  twinkling  brilliance  of  a  drop  of  dew, 

The  bow  of  heaven  which  strikes  us  like  a  spell, 

And  all  the  harmony  of  things,  not  few, 

Are  but  the  breathings  of  the  Deity, 

To  wake  the  slumbering  soul  to  prospects  in  the  sky. 


The  painted  Indian,  God's  untutored  child, 

Whose  savage  orbs  ne'er  gazed  upon  a  book, 

Save  the  wide  volume  of  his  native  wild, — 

The  mountain,  forest,  lake,  and  whispering  brook,  — 

Heaven's  azure  dome,  whose  million  meek  eyes  smiled, 

And  seemed  the  spirit  of  them  all  to  look 

Into  his  soul,  which  knew  no  other  law 

Than  that  by  nature  taught,  inspiring  awe, — 


StlKl. LEY'S    I'OE.MX.  37 


The  lofty  hills  in  hoary  majesty, — 
The  rippling  brooklet  and  the  murmuring  waves, — 
The  fragrant  airs  which  through  the  valley  sigh 
The  trees,  the  flowery  plains,  and  echoing  caves, — 
The  lightning's  flash  along  the  gloomy  sky, — 
The  roaring  thunders  when  the  storm-king  raves, — 
Have  writ  their  language  on  his  willing  soul, 
And  prove  th'  "  Great  Spirit"  author  of  the  whole. 


Then,  Shelley,  thou  would'st  tell  us  "  there's  no  God," 

All  Nature  gives  thy  impious  words  the  lie  ; 

If,  sooth,  thou  sufferedst  from  His  chastening  rod, 

And  failing  to  detect  with  erring  eye 

The  object  of  the  ruling  hand  abroad, 

"Which  sweeps  the  desert,  ocean,  and  the  sky, 

Had'st  thou  no  remedy,  but  darkly  mope 

And  vainly  try  to  blight  our  happiness  and  hope  ? 


Think'st  thou,  vain  man,  because  endowed  with  thought 

To  make  the  lightning  serve  thy  mighty  will 

And  chainless  intellect,  that  thou  art  fraught 

With  power  Omnipotent  ?     That  matchless  skill 

Of  deeds  immortal  sprang  by  chance  from  nought  ? 

That  thy  transcendent  strength  to  save  or  kill 

Had  no  more  worthy  origin  ?     Go,  bow 

Before  yon  mossy  rock,  't  has  greater  faith  than  thou. 


Immortal  Shelley  !  thou  whose  mental  might 
Played  with  ideas,  as  with  toys  a  child, 
Rocks,  mountains,  rivers,  oceans,  skies,  thy  light 
Shone  on  them  as  the  lightning's  flash  ;  though  wild 
Thy  fevered  brain  could  feel,  impart  delight, 
Enchanting  man  ;  then  thou  hast  turned  and  smiled, 
And  from  thy  faithless  heart  exclaimed,  "  no  God 
Reigns  over  us  ; "  hence  Chance  inspired  a  clod  ! 


38  SHELLEY'S  POEMS. 


There  is  a  God  !  and  on  Him  man  will  lean 
And  build  his  storied  hopes  while  dwelling  here, 
Wearing,  from  solace,  that  meek,  gentle  mien, 
That  speechless  eloquence  of  silenced  fear, 
No  dread  of  death  such  aspect  bears  ;  serene 
And  calm,  as  lovely  waveless  lakes  appear, 
The  heavens  reflected  in  their  depths  below 
In  starry  beauty's  quiet  slumber  glow. 


There  is  a  glory  in  Religious  teaching 
Inspired  with  bliss  and  joy,  no  tongue  can  tell ; 
Nor  Atheist's  laugh,  nor  Deist's  soulless  preaching 
Can  break  the  magic  of  the  sacred  spell, 
Where  Faith  and  Hope  like  sirens  sing,  bewitching 
The  heart,  where  darkling  sorrows  wont  to  dwell, 
Begetting  Love  and  Peace,  the  aim  of  Him 
Before  whose  eyes  all  their  lights  are  dim. 


Say,  Shelley,  wast  thou  happy  here  below  ? 
Did  not  the  passion  in  thy  bosom  nursed, 
Become  to  thee  to  all  mankind  a  foe, 
And  leave  thee,  e'en  in  youth,  a  thing  accursed  ? 
Did'st  never  see  the  Christian's  face  a-glow 
With  tranquil  smiles,  or  hear  the  heavenly  burst 
Of  music  from  his  joy  o'erburthened  breast, 
Which  marked  his  future  home,  a  home  of  rest  ? 


Whate'er  has  Atheism  done  for  this  our  world 
But  curse  it  ?     Has  Paine's  infidelity 
Not  many  a  million  to  destruction  hurled, 
By  the  sad  aid  .of  heartless  Sophistry  ? 
The  sails  which  bore  his  bark  of  life  were  furled 
O'er  awful,  writhing,  helpless  agony  ! 
Contrast  his  death  with  Addison's,  and  see 
The  calm  that  waits  on  Christianity. 


SHELLEY'S    AV-.J/.V.  39 


Vain,  godless  man  hath  tried,  hut  never  yet 

1  ,eit  e'en  one  record  on  historic  page 

Which  breathes  felicity.     Men  may  forget, 

And  have,  in  this  and  every  other  age, 

Their  living  God  ;  but  neler  or  seldom  set, 

(When  future  glory  would  the  soul  engage) 

Their  hopes  on  aught  short  of  the  mighty  Rock 

Which  stands  the  tern  pests  breath  and  earthquake's  shock. 


Oh  !  misery,  nursed  of  hate,  about  the  heart 
Entwines,  as  snakes  around  the'ir  victims  bound, 
Till  man  becomes  a  fiend  from  poison's  smart, 
Yet  planted  there  the  immedicable  wound, 
Cherishing  wretchedness  with  miser  art, 
Till  Sin  has  left  him  in  a  gulf  profound, 
Companion  to  Despair,  and  ceaseless  pain, 
Where  radiant  hope  may  never  beam  again. 


Our  chance  is  all  with  virtue.     Our  despair 

Springs  out  of  Vice's  most  detested  fruit ; 

If  nought  beyond  the  grave  could  claim  our  care, 

And  blotted  from  our  souls  each,  every  doubt, 

Nothing  to  dread  more  than  our  sufferings  here, 

And  death  were  final  when  our  breath  goes  out, 

Still  let  me  with  Religion,  Virtue  dwell, 

And  shun  thy  spirit,  Vice,  which  makes  fair  earth  a  hell. 


OLinco  to  tbe  Derwent 


F,  Derwent,  in  his  dearth  of  power, 
An  humble  votary  sing  thy  praise 
In  weaker  strains  than  whom  thy  dower 
Of  loveliness  inspired  to  pour 
Their  loftier,  sweeter  lays, 


Chide  not ;  he  loves  as  well  as  they 
Who  quaffed  thy  changing  seasons'  charms, 
When  rocks  were  rent  and  borne  away 
As  feathers  'neath  thy  wanton  spray, 
In  frowning  grandeur's  arms  : 


Or  milder  Spring,  whose  genial  gale 

Had  soothed  thy  mane — adorned  thy  braes, 

Or  Summer  spread  her  deeper  veil, 

Or  hoary  Autumn  did  reveal 

Her  glory-tinted  face. 


LINES    Y'O    THE    DERU'LM. 


How  sweet  thy  sylvan  shades  to  rove, 
Or  on  thy  sunny  banks  to  lie  ; 
To  list  the  blending  lays  of  love, 
That  gush  from  every  echoing  grove, 
Or  rain  adown  the  sky  ; — 


To  catch  the  glow  of  beauty's  face, 
And  ponder  well  each  floweret's  eye  : 
To  dwell  upon  its  peerless  grace, 
Its  birth  in  Nature's  God  to  trace, 
To  thrill  with  wakened  joy  ; — 


To  look  on  heaven-aspiring  trees, 
Adorned  in  vernal  robes  of  green  ; 
Their  graceful  motions  as  the  breeze 
Embraces  each,  till  like  the  seas 
Their  heaving  breasts  are  seen  ; — 


To  muse  within  the  silent  dell, 
While  resting  on  some  mossy  stone 
(Where  Nature's  shadowy  glories  dwell), 
On  fern  and  herb,  and  floral  bell, 
Enraptured  and  alone  ; — 


To  trace  thee  to  the  infant  rills,* 
When  summer's  tints  enchant  the  eye, 
That  gush  between  the  purple  hills, 
Where  hums  the  bee — the  laverock  trills 
His  melting  melody ; — 


*  The  source  of  the  Derwent,  about  a  mile  and  a  half  above  Blanchland, 
is  well  worth  a  visit.  At  the  confluence  of  two  small  streams  which 
have  their  fountains  among  the  wild,  yet  beautiful,  heather  hills,  stands  a 
remarkable  rock  known  by  the  formidable  name  of  "Gibraltar."  Beneath 
the  brow  of  this  romantic  pile,  which  occupies  the  narrow  neck  of  land 
formed  by  those  burns,  and  towards  the  junction  of  the  same,  is  to  be 
seen  a  bright  spring  well,  which  will  gladden  the  heart  of  the  visitor. 
The  woods  on  either  side  from  this  spot  to  Bay  Bridge  (about  a  mile),  in 
the  valley  of  the  Derwent,  are  positively  charming  to  those  who  have  an 
eye  for  the  majesty  of  Nature. 


42  LINES   TO    THE  DERIVENT. 


To  linger  by  the  hoary,  rocks 
Which  guard  as  sentinels  thy  way, 
Crowned  with  the  hardy  heather's  locks, 
Braving  the  strong-wing'd  tempests'  shocks, 
Or  lit  with  summer's  ray  ; — 


To  watch  thy  tributaries  roll 
In  soft  and  soothing  light  along  ; 
To  hear  their  bells  of  liquid  toll, 
Or  prattle  as  some  mystic  soul 
Their  waters  dwelt  among  ; — 


To  mount  some  promontory's  height, 

Commanding  well  thy  winding  ways, 

And  turn  the  eye  in  wild  delight 

Upon  thy  margin's  fringes  bright, 

Knoll,  woodland,  glen  and  field,  where  light 

And  beauty  mingled  blaze  ! 


Yes,  Derwent,  'tis  no  meagre  joy 

That  thrills  their  hearts  who  roam  thy  shore 

I  loved  thee  when  a  trembling  boy, 

For  thou  hast  wondrous  charms  ;  my  eye 

Beholds  but  to  adore. 


As  on  some  bright  enchanted  stream, 
By  fairies  trod  I  dreamt  of  thee  : 
Thou  wert  my  bosom's  earliest  theme 
Ere  it  was  wont  on  rhymes  to  dream, 
But  fetterless  and  free. 


Nor  is  this  strange  ;  for  she  to  whom 
I  owe  my  being — all  I  know 
Of  thoughts  which  out  of  virtue  come — 
Was  reared,  and  wore  her  maiden  bloom 
Upon  thy  banks, — drank  their  perfume 
And  music  of  thy  flow. 


LINES   TO    THE  DERWENT.  43 


My  bosom  long  has  been  the  shrine — 
A  cherished  sanctuary — where 
Her  stories  superstitous  twine, 
And  blend  with  visions  more  divine 
Committed  to  my  care. 


Say,  Derwent,  thou  who  art  so  old, 
Thou  can'st,  if  that  thou  wilt,  I  think, 
Strange  stories  of  the  past  unfold 
Of  nature's  savage  child  who  strolled 
First  on  thy  sounding  brink. 


Thou'st  seen  him  'neath  the  Roman's  spear 
Sink  trembling  on  the  flowery  sod, 
And  heard  him  with  distracted  ear 
His  deities  invoking  there  ; 
For  oh  !  he  knew  not  God. 


Tell  me,  has  many  a  Saxon  maid, 
Of  flaxen  lock  and  azure  eye, 
Thy  stilly  wave  a  mirror  made, 
And,  lingering,  her  bright  face  surveyed 
Of  blushing  roses  dye  ? 


Thou  must,  if  tales  be  true,  have  felt 
The  trip  of  gentle  Ebba's*  feet, 
And  heard  her  as  by  thee  she  knelt, 
Her  soul  to  adoration  melt, 
In  accents  wild  and  sweet. 


The  Christian's  God,  for  she  had  known 
The  "  Prince  of  Peace,"  inspired  her  prayer ; 
With  face  upturned  towards  His  throne, 
To  solitude  and  thee  alone 
Of  earth  she  told  her  care. 

For  an  account  of  St.  Ebba,  see  page  59. 


44  LINES  TO    THE  DERWENT. 


Say,  Derwent,  do  her  ashes  rest 

In  some  deep  glen  or  mound  of  thine  ? 

Tis  sad  that  o'er  so  pure  a  breast 

No  monumental  marks  attest 

To  human  eye  the  worthy  guest 

That  fills  so  dear  a  shrme. 


Thou  must  have  checked  thy  crystal  tide 
When  erst  the  impious  Dane  appeared, 
And  wrapped  in  flames  the  house  of  pride, 
Which  rose  in  splendour  on  thy  side, 
This  royal  maiden  reared  : 


Or  frowned  as  through  thy  bosom  rushed 
The  host*  from  Caledonia  wild  ; 
Thy  hoarser  sounds  to  silence  hushed, 
As  Ethelbergaf  gazing  blushed, 
For  she  was  virtue's  child. 


Had  Edwin  or  PaulinusJ  tuned 
To  sing  thy  praises  no  'rapturing  lyre  ? 
Did  Radcliffe's§  generous  bosom  bound, 
When  first  thy  hallowed  charms  he  found, 
And  burn  with  po'tic  fire  ? 


*  The  Scotch,  30,000  strong,  led  by  David  II,  King  of  Scotland, 
crossed  the  Derwent  at  Ebchester,  after  traversing  some  miles  of  the 
Roman  Road,  "  Watling  Street,"  and  encamped  at  night  amid  the  ruins 
of  the  Vindomora  of  the  Itinerary  of  Antoninus,  before  proceeding  to 
the  battle  of  Neville's  Cross,  which  terminated  so  disastrously  for  the 
brave  Scots. .  The  King  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  English,  and  was  kept 
in  captivity  eleven  years. 

+  Ethelberga,  the  wife  of  King  Edwin,  who  succeeded  Ethelfred,  and 
reigned  from  626  to  633  over  Northumbria. 

J  Paulinus,  Archbishop  of  York,  a  Roman  missionary,  who  came 
north  with  King  Edwin  and  Ethelberga  in  626,  converted  thousands 
of  Northumbrian  Britons,  and  Edwin  himself  to  Christianity  ;  and  when 
Edwin  fell  in  the  battle  of  Hatfield  Chase,  in  Yorkshire,  fled  with  the 
royal  widow  and  her  children,  and  found  an  asylum  in  Kent, 

§  See  page  62. 


LINES    TO    THE  DERWENT.  45 


Did  classic  Carr*  once  converse  hold 
With  Lucian  in  thy  tranquil  bowefs, 
Until  the  lengthening  shadows  told 
How  far  the  western  sun  had  rolled 
Adown  the  fruitful  hours  ? 


The  Briton  loved  thy  oaken  shade  ; 
The  Roman  built  his  temple  here  ; 
The  Saxon  shook  his  conquering  blade  ; 
The  desolating  Dane  surveyed 
The  piles  he  did  not  spare. 


Upon  thy  banks  the  Norman  reared 
His  abbey  gray,f  devotion's  home  ; 
And  those  whom  Luther's  creed  revered 
Nestled  within  thy  breast,  nor  feared 
The  Christian  martyr's  doom. 


Thou  answerest  nought.     Thy  secrets  keep 

The  centuries  have  given  : 

Still  on  to  father  ocean  sweep 

Thy  chainless  tides,  and  sing  and  weep 

And  purl  and  roar  to  Heaven  ! 


*  See  page  32. 

t  "  The  Abbey  of  Blanchland,  or  Alba  Landa,  was  founded  in  1 175  by 
Walter  de  Bolbeck.  It  was  forfeited  to  the  crown  by  the  attainder  of 
Thomas  Forster,  jun.,  Esq.,  1715,  and  purchased  by  the  Right  Honourable 
and  Rev.  Lord  Crewe,  Bishop  of  Durham,  his  uncle,  who  left  it  to 
charitable  uses.  The  west  end  and  towers  of  the  church  remain.  There 
are  some  old  gravecovers  in  the  church.  The  gateway  of  the  quadrangle 
of  the  abbey,  and  of  the  abbey  itself,  are  still  remaining  ;  the  towers  on 
each  hand  are  converted  into  alehouses  ;  but  there  remain  no  relics  of 
the  impressive  church  pomp  of  former  times." 


Xost  Ibunter;  or,  an  3ndfcent  of 


Xife  in  Jllinois. 


E  passed  the  gate  ere  the  storm  came  on, 

Which  led  to  the  dreary  wild  ; 
I  marked  him  well  :  he  was  all  alone, 
With  a  gun  across  his  shoulder  thrown, 
And  an  aspect  brave  and  mild. 


"  Stranger,"  I  said,  in  a  voice  of  fear, 

(Breathing  a  timely  warning), 
"  Thou  must  not  'tempt  the  prairie  drear ; 
The  way  is  long,  and  night  is  here, 

And  thou  might'st  be  lost  ere  morning." 


And  he  paused  and  spake  in  gentle  mood, . 

For  the  brave  are  always  kind  : 
"  From  youth,  my  boy,  I  have  tempests  wooed, 
On  the  open  plain,  in  the  shrieking  wood, 

As  it  groaned  'neath  the  rushing  wind." 


THE  LOST  HUNTER.  47 


So  onward  he  passed  in  his  active  might, 

As  a  steed  freed  from  the  rein, 
Over  the  crests  of  the  snow-wreathes  white, 
Till  he  seemed  but  a  speck  in  my  aching  sight, 

On  the  far  extending  plain. 


But,  hark  !  how  the  storm-king  wails  on  high, 
With  his  thousand  voices  moaning, 

Pregnant  with  many  a  destiny  ; 

And  the  forest  trees,  as  he  passes  by, 
Beneath  his  rage  are  groaning. 


And  the  snow  is  borne  on  the  warring  blast, 
As  a  mist  the  land  enshrouding  ; 

Oh  !  where  is  the  bold  one  who  lately  passed  ? 

Will  he  brave  the  storm,  or  be  over-cast, 
O'er  his  reckless  folly  brooding  ? 


By  far  Sangamon's  tideless  stream, 

In  a  cottage  lone  and  drear, 
A  woman  sits  by  her  log-fire's  gleam, 

And  her  brain  is  wrought  with  foreboding  fear 
As  she  hears  the  wind  go  whistling  on, 
And  the  oaks  around  'neath  its  pressure  groan,* 
And  the  oxen  low  in  the  frozen  shed, 
And  the  restless  grunt  of  the  hog  in  his  bed, 
And  the  horse's  neigh,  and  the  dog's  low  growl, 
As  he  hears  the  wolfs  long  echoing  howl, 
And  the  awful  night-bird  piping  loud, 
Like  a  spirit  pent  in  .a  sable  cloud. 
'Tis  an  evil  omen  :  all  presume 
That  some  much-loved  friend  has  found  a  tomb. 
To  her,  all  things  wear  sorrow's  form  ; — 

Despair  is  written  on  her  brow, 
And  she  turns  to  gaze  through  the  blinding  storm, 

With  an  eye  almost  prophetic  now  ; 
And  from  the  depths  of  her  welling  woes, 
Tli is  impassioned  song  of  sorrow  flows  : — 


48  THE  LOST  HUNTER. 


"  Where  does  my  loved  one  stray  from  me  ? 

He  never  stayed  so  long  before  ; 
A  day  were  an  eternity 

Should  he  no  longer  cross  my  door. 


"  My  fondest  hope — my  life — my  all, 
Since  first  I  gazed  upon  his  face  ; 

If  love  for  me  has  wrought  his  fall, 
Why  died  I  not  in  his  embrace  ? 


"  But,  no  !  he  would  not  leave  the  grove 
In  such  a  wild  tempestuous  hour  ; 

Perchance  some  foe  to  mortal  love 
Has  clasped  him  in  his  giant  power. 


"  And  yet,  O  God  !  he  never  dwelt 
A  night  beyond  my  tender  care, 

Since  first  we  at  the  altar  knelt, 
Our  souls  for  ever  mingling  there. 


"  He  yet  may  come  ;  away  despair  ! 

Why  seek  a  home  within  my  breast  ? 
Thou  never  sought'st  a  heart  to  cheer ; 

Thou  foe  to  hope,  devouring  rest. 


*'  But  if  he  sleeps  beneath  the  snow, 
My  woes  shall  only  end  in  death  ; 

Then  blow,  relentless  tempests,  blow, 
And  chill  for  e'er  my  vital  breath." 


THE  LOST  HUNTER.  49 


'Tis  Spring ;  the  zephyrs  sweep  across  the  plain, 
And  flowers  of  varied  hues  are  breathing  here, 

And  Love,  and  Light,  and  Beauty  smile  again, 
In  the  enchantment  of  the  youthful  year. 


The  wild  deer  strays  in  grace  and  majesty, 
"  Brushing  the  morn  and  evening  dews  away," 

Cropping  the  early  swamp  grass  eagerly, 

Or  basking  'neath  the  enamouring  god  of  Day. 


And  man,  the  base  destroyer,  seeks  thy  bed, 

To  slay  thee  through  some  cunning  he  has  plann'd ; 

Or  sends  thee  panting  with  his  fiery  steed, 
To  die  at  length  beneath  his  cruel  hand. 


In  such  a  chase,  when  low  his  victim  lay, 
.A  hunter  had  descended  from  his  horse, 

To  drive  the  last  breath  from  the  prostrate  clay, 
In  boasted  triumph  rather  than  remorse. 


This  done,  he  turned  his  eye  abroad  to  learn 
If  any  of  his  comrades  wandered  near ; 

Some  stranger  object  did  his  eye  discern, 

Which  he  approached  with  something  like  to  fear. 


Some  whitened  bones — a  skeleton — a  man — 
A  gun — some  rags  of  him  who  passed  the  gate, 

"  O  !  noble  Tom,"  his  sorrows  then  began, 
"  As  I  do  live,  the  world  shall  know  thy  fate. 


"  And  was  it  here,  by  awful  foes  surrounded, 
The  elements  which  froze  thy  vital  tide, 

And  wolves  which  thou  so  often  hast  confounded, 
Thou  droopedst  in  agony  and  bravely  died  ? 


5o  THE  LOST  HUNTER. 


"  Thy  very  bones  have  suffered  from  fierce  fangs, 
Which  tore  the  flesh  in  savage  hunger  here ; 

O,  what !  ere  life  had  fled,  would  be  thy  pangs  ; 
Here  rests  the  theme  of  many  a  '  generous  tear.' 


"  Thou  shalt  not  linger  in  the  scorching  sun, 
Where  eyes  of  reverence  may  never  stray  ; 

Near  thy  loved  cot,  now  tenantless  and  lone, 
Where  Sangamon  rolls  slowly  on  her  way, 


"  Thou  shalt  repose  in  an  eternal  sleep, 

Where  fairer  flowers  than  these  shall  deck  thy  bed, 
And  willows,  gemmed  with  morning  dew,  shall  weep 

Their  glittering  tears  above  thy  lowly  head. 


My  story's  done  ;  but  where,  O  !  where  is  she 
Who  pour'd  her  sorrow's  to  the  midnight  skies — 

Where  Sangamon  glides  slow  and  noiselessly 
Below  the  banks  where  sturdy  white  oaks  rise  ? 


Gone  with  the  spirit  she  so  much  adored ; 

Their  bones  are  mingling  in  one  quiet  grave ; 
This  epitaph  was  to  their  memory  pour'd  : — 

"  Here  lie  the  relics  of  the  True  and  Brave." 


0 

J± 


5       J-* 

r-  1 

o 


iBbcbeetcr.* 


ERE  let  me  sit  upon  these  grassy  slopes, 
Beneath  the  god  of  Day's  enamouring  beam, 
Enchanted  with  the  scene  which  round  me  opes, 
Prolific  text  of  many  a  cherished  dream, 
Whose  blooming  landscapes  with  chaste  beauties  teem  : 
The  smiling  field,  the  glen,  the  burn,  the  grove, 
Blending  harmoniously  around  thy  stream, 
Meandering  Derwent,  fit  retreat  for  Love, 
Where  Nature's  worshipper  in  joy  unmixed  may  rove. 


*  Few  places  in  the  county  possess  a  greater  charm  for  the  historian 
than  the  village  of  Ebchester,  whose  early  history  is  shrouded  in 
obscurity,  and  whose  unique  Church  and  Roman  relics  have  long 
employed  the  thoughts  of  reflecting  and  speculative  antiquaries. 
The  Roman  legions  who  made  it  their  resting  place,  and  from  the 
sloping  banks  watched  the  tactics  of  the  hardy  Briton  concealed  in 
the  opposite  forests  of  Northumbria,  the  callous  Dane,  and  defiant, 
unconquerable  Scot,  all  have  left  upon  it  the  impress  of  their  strength 
and  power.  Pleasantly  situated  on  the  right  bank  of  the  Derwent. 
and  intersected  by  the  road  leading  from  Newcastle  to  Shotley 
Bridge,  at  a  distance  of  twelve  miles  from  the  former  and  two  from 
the  latter,  the  village  has  undergone  little  change  since  Hutchinson's 
time.  It  was  then  a  small,  irregular  place,  and  the  description  holds 
good  at  the  present  day.  Notwithstanding  the  modern  hotel,  and 
two  or  three  pretentious  grocery  and  drapery  establishments,  an  air 
of  rustic  simplicity  still  hangs  over  it.  '  Scarcely  two  of  the  houses 
are  alike,  one  jutting  upon  and  another  receding  from  the  street,  and 
most  of  them  seemingly  built  from  the  readily  available  quarry 
adjacent — the  Roman  Station.  Very  little  is  known  respecting  the 
early  history  of  the  Church,  which  stands  within  the  area  of  the 
Roman  Camp,  and  is  dedicated  to  St.  Ebba.  It  is  built  of  stones 
from  the  Roman  walls  and  edifices,  and  apparently  dates  from  the 
twelfth  century.  The  engraving  correctly  depicts  the  Church  as  it 
was  before  being  restored,  and  presents  a  curious  combination  of 
early  and  modern  architecture. — History  of  West  Durham. 


54  EKCHESTEK. 


My  mind  contemplative  through  mists  of  Time, 
On  Retrospection's  airy  pinions  borne, 
Beholds,  where  now  those  towering  woods  sublime, 
Aspiring  to  the  clouds,  the  hills  adorn, 
The  heathen  Briton  who  had  yet  to  learn 
A  Roman's  majesty  or  Saxon's  will, 
Roaming  those  haunts,  in  savage  gloom  forlorn, 
Through  dell  and  grove,  or  pausing  by  the  rill, 
In  which  he  saw  no  God,  but  worshipped  Idols  still. 


He  hears  the  voices  of  the  gale — the  woods, 
The  liquid  bells,  where  murmuring  brooks  meander, 
The  tempest's  shriek  along  the  sable  clouds, 
The  echoing  cavern  and  the  roaring  thunder, 
Sees  lightnings  flash — the  sky's  transcendent  grandeur, 
Lists  feathery  choirs  their  melting  music  fling 
Unto  the  winds,  and  forth  he  thus  doth  wander, 
Snuffing  the  floweret's  fragrance — lovely  thing, 
Yet  dreams  not  of  their  Source  from  whence  all  glories  spring. 


And  in  my  gaze  I  see  the  Druid  chief 
Beneath  the  oak  he  venerates  at  prayer, 
Or  in  rude  temple  pouring  strange  belief 
To  Deity  more  strange,  or  false  god  there  ; 
And  mark  the  "  wicker  cage  "  around  Despair, 
The  howling  victims  wreathed  in  torturing  flame  ; 
The  clouds  are  red  with  the  unholy  glare, 
And  cruel  wretches,  never  known  to  shame, 
Survey  with  fierce  delight  what  Hell  would  fail  to  name. 


Now  turn  we  to  our  antiquated  theme, 
Ebchester  :  I  have  roamed  from  thee  afar. 

1    Here  lordly  Romans  dwelt  with  power  supreme, 
In  all  the  pomp  and  pageantry  of  war  ; 
Here  frowned  their  rampart  wall,  a  massy  bar, 
To  British  hosts  impregnable,  I  ween ; 
And  where  these  tranquil  habitations  are, 
Whose  happy  inmates  smile  in  joys  serene, 

Unshocked  by  din  of  arms,  nor  caring  what  has  been, 


EBCIU-.STI-:K.  55 


The  towering  temple  rose,  where  mirth  and  revelry 
Basked  in  the  rays  of  Triumph  and  of  Power ; 
The  song,  the  jest,  the  tale  of  chivalry, 
Beguiled,  no  doubt,  full  many  a  flying  hour. 
Here,  Antoninus,*  thou  whjose  earthly  dower, 
In  Hadrian's  gift,  was  Rome's  imperial  throne, 
Was  reared  thy  "  Vindomora  " — now  no  more, 
Like  to  thy  virtuous  self — thy  Empire — gone  ; 
Yet  Rome,  thy  glory,  still  smiles  round  us  as  a  sun  ! 


The  air  and  earth  are  pregnant  with  thy  prime, 
Immortal  Roman  ;  and  man  looks  on  thee 
As  a  Colossus,  towering  up  through  time, 
Or  a  lone  Alp,  soaring  majestic'ly, 
Which  grows  more  mighty  as  he  longingly 
Turns  and  returns,  as  if  each  glance  he  cast 
Some  greater  wonder  left  his  breast  less  free, 
Till  it  becomes  a  thing  so  huge  and  vast, 
That  all  the  world  beside  seems  utterly  surpassed. 


*  The  author  has  designedly  preferred  the  character  of  Antoninus 
Pius  the  Sixteenth,  in  order  of  the  Roman  Emperors  from  Julius 
Caesar,  to  that  of  Antoninus,  the  author  of  an  Itinerary  (or  military 
road  book),  on  whose  authority,  coupled  with  that  of  Richard  of 
Cirencester,  modern  writers  believe  the  Station  at  Ebchester  to  be 
the  Vindomora  of  the  Romans.  In  an  excellent  paper  on  Roman 
Ebchester,  contributed  to  the  "  History  of  West  Durham"  by  the  Rev. 
Dr.  Hooppell,  Rector  of  Byers  Green,  the  writer  says  : — "  There  can 
be  no  .doubt  the  Romans,  in  giving  names  to  their  military  stations 
in  Britain,  adopted  the  enchorial,  that  is  the  native,  names  of  the 
places.  All  they  did  was  to  affix,  in  the  generality  of  cases,  a  Latin 
termination  to  the  word,  so  as  to  fit  it  to  receive  the  various  inflections 
the  nature  of  their  language  required,  and,  in  some  cases,  to  soften 
the  harshness,  or  remove  the  unpronounceability  by  their  lips,  of 
the  gutterals.  Thus  the  signification  of  the  name  Vindomora,  the 
Roman  name  of  Ebchester,  must  be  sought  in  the  Keltic,  i.e.,  in  the 
British,  language.  Nor  is  it  hard  to  discover.  'Vin'  signifies,  in 
the  British,  '  Edge,'  and  occurs  in  numerous  instances.  Vinovium, 
Vindobala,  Vindogladia,  Vindolana,  are  all  found  in  Roman  lists  of 
posts  in  Britain.  '  Do'  seems  certainly  to  be  the  Latinised  form  of 
'  Du'  Black,  and  '  Mor'  is  the  same  word  that  we  have  in  our 
language  still,  written  with  a  doubled  'o' — Moor.  Vindomoro  is, 
therefore,  '  Black  moor  edge,' — a  name,  probably,  in  British  times, 
remarkably  descriptive  of  the  position  and  vicinity  of  the  spot  now 
known  as  Ebchester." 


56  EBCHESTER. 


Tradition  tells,  and  I  repeat  the  story, 
That  'neath  this  village,  in  some  cave,  was  hid, 
When  Rome  had  boundless  wealth  and  too  had  glory, 
A  chest  of  money,  and  upon  its  lid 
A  crow  was  perched,  and  some  old  man  to  rid 
His  brain  (whose  nightly  dreams  oppressed  him  sore) 
Of  doubt  regarding  what  the  Romans  did, 
Worked  hard  for  weeks  the  treasure  to  explore, 
But  neither  gold  nor  crow  to  light  could  e'er  restore.* 

Deem  not,  because  the  old  man  dug  in  vain, 
That  nought  of  Rome  hath  hither  been  exhumed  ; 
The  bath,  the  altar,f  and  inscription  plain 
Of  mortals,  who  below  had  been  entombed 
Eight  hundred  years,  ere  Norman  foes  presumed 
To  wave  their  sceptre  o'er  this  sea-girt  isle, 
Have  been  extracted  from  this  soil,  long  doomed 
To  lie  like  graves  in  dungeons,  where  no  smile 
Of  summer  sunbeam  came  to  light  and  cheer  the  while. 

About  this  hallow'd  spot  a  charm  seems  hov'ring ; 
The  fragmentary  ruins  here  we  find, 
Divested  by  some  busy  hand  of  cov'ring, 
Are  eloquent  of  man's  immortal  mind, 
And  are  with  Roman  genius  entwined; 
As  ivy  clambers  o'er  the  mouldering  wall, 
With  vigour  in  its  wreck-surviving  rind, 
So  Thought  outlives  its  flesh-encumbering  hall, 
And  walks  the  earth  with  Time  triumphant  over  all. 

*  Tradition  says  that  a  chest  of  Roman  money  is  buried  somewhere 
in  the  Station,  and  that  a  crow  is  perched  on  its  lid.  About  fifty 
years  ago,  an  old  man,  who  profoundly  believed  the  story,  set  to 
work  and  sunk,  in  different  parts  of  Ebchester,  two  shafts,  where  he 
laboured  with  a  will  some  weeks,  in  the  hope  of  finding  the  treasure, 
but  success  did  not  crown  his  efforts.  He  finally  abandoned  the 
work,  more  through  exhaustion  than  failing  faith  in  the  money  being 
buried  somewhere  within  the  precincts  of  the  old  Station. 

+  The  Church  and  Churchyard  abound  in  Roman  sculptures, 
which  are  fully  described  in  the  History  of  West  Durham.  Close  to 
the  entrance  to  the  Church,  just  outside  the  porch,  on  i{s  western 
side,  is  a  noble  altar.  (See  illustration  on  the  next  page).  It  was 
found  in  the  year  1876,  at  the  last  restoration  of  the  Church,  in  the 
foundations  at  the  west  end. 


TRoman  Hltar  fount)  in  1876. 


EHC11  ESTER.  59 


Whence  emanates  the  petty  pride  of  man  ? 
( Ireat  Caesar  and  Agricola  are  clay, 
Brave  Hadrian  and  Antoninus  ran 
A  course  of  glory,  but  have  passed  away, — 
Their  mem'ries  o'er  our  hearts  like  sunbeams  play. 
Come  hither,  mortal,  and  survey  this  spot ; 
Mark  well  the  scene  of  power  and  grandeur's  stay  ; 
What  is  it  now  ?     Such  soon  shall  be  thy  lot, 
Save  that  thy  very  name,  perchance,  will  be  forgot. 

Fair,  gentle,  chaste,  and  beauteous  Ebba,*  thou 
(Long,  long  ago,  twelve  hundred  changeful  years) 
Didst  cause  a  Monastery  to  rise,  where  now 
Yon  sacred  pile  its  sombre  head  uprears  ; 
Here,  in  seclusion,  didst  thou  dwell,  with  fears 
Lest  worldly  passions  should  corrupt  thy  breast, 
Nursing  thy  virtue  in  this  vale  of  tears 
With  Christian  watchfulness  which  sought  not  rest 
But  in  His  bosom,  who  had  made  thine  own  more  blest. 

Perchance  Paulinus,  f  he  whose  skilful  tongue, 
Converting  kings,  was  eloquent  of  Truth, 
Had  sought  thee,  Ebba,  first  of  Christians  wrung 
From  royal  pleasures  and  their  sins  forsooth, 
And  kept  thee  strong  in  Faith,  though  still  in  youth, 
Beneath  his  vigilant  and  heaven-rayed  eye, 
Beholding  virtues  in  their  tender  growth 
Developing  to  fit  thee  for  the  sky, 
But  dreamt  not  of  thy  fate,  thy  future  agony. 

*  St.  Ebba,  daughter  of  King  Ethelfrid,  who  reigned  over  North- 
umbria  from  593  to  617,  is  said  to  have  founded  a  Monastery  here 
in,  or  before,  the  year  A.D.  660.  It  is  also  said  that  after  the  des- 
truction of  the  Monastery,  St.  Ebba  and  her  virgins  disfigured 
their  faces  to  save  themselves  from  the  impious  Danes.  St.  Ebba 
was  amongst  the  first  Royal  Christians. 

t  Paulinus,  Archbishop  of  York,  was  an  Italian  by  birth,  and  is 
thought  to  have  taken  monastic  vows  in  the  Monastery  of  St.  Andrew's, 
in  Rome,  in  601.  He  was  sent  to  England  by  Gregory  the  Great,  as 
an  adjunct  of  the  missionaries  there — Augustin  and  his  companions. 
Paulinus  afterwards,  on  the  marriageof  King  Edwin  of  Kent  to  Ethelburga, 
accompanied  the  Christian  Princess  to  the  north  when  Edwin  ascended 
the  Northumbrian  throne.  Edwin,  under  the  preaching  of  Paulinus, 
was  induced  to  espouse  the  Christian  faith,  and  thousands  of  Northumbrian 
Britons  as  well. 


60  EBCHESTER. 


Thy  royal  father's  daughter  had  her  sorrows 
In  this  dark  voyage  of  ever-varying  strife  ; 
Thy  cruel  sire*  but  knew  the  joy  that  borrows 
Existence  from  a  foeman  robbed  of  life  ; 
The  slayer  of  the  Briton's  soul  was  rife 
With  hell's  dark  passions  deepening  their  stain, 
Till  Death  approached  him  with  his  certain  knife, 
As  if  to  urge  in  justice  pain  for  pain, 
And  laid  him  pulseless  down,  the  slayer  with  the  slain. 


And  did  he  fall  unwept  of  mortal  eyes  ? 
Methinks,  fair  Ebba,  that  some  kindred  soul 
Poured  forth  its  sorrows  to  the  midnight  skies, 
The  wailing  griefs  which  it  might  ne'er  control, 
That  mixed  with  rocky  Derwent's  echoing  roll, 
Till  lost  in  air  as  boundless  as  its  woe  ; 
And  shall  they  find  at  length  some  distant  goal, 
Or  live  and  sigh  in  all  the  winds  that  blow, 
And  visit  every  clime  ?     We  know  nought — even  so  ! 


Ebba,  thy  life  'neath  this  monastic  roof 
No  doubt  had  something  of  a  latent  charm  ; 
Thou  deemed'st  its  massy  walls  were  tempest  proof 
To  shield  thyself  and  cherished  ones  from  harm  : 
Thy  dream  was  vain  ;  Northumbria's  land  was  warm 
With  blazing  temples,  palaces  and  fanes, 
Like  to  the  Simoon  or  the  thunder  storm, 
They  came  !  they  came  !  the  hope-devouring  Danes, 
And  wrapped  thy  home  in  fire,  rewarding  thus  thy  pains. 


*  The  cruelties  of  Ethelfrid  (who,  we  are  informed,  destroyed  more 
Britons  than  all  the  other  Saxon  kings),  are  well  known  to  those  who 
are  acquainted  with  our  Anglo-Saxon  history.  Who  has  not  read  with 
horror  of  his  slaughter  of  1,200  unresisting  Britons  at  Bangor,  the 
destruction  of  the  ancient  monastery  there — its  vast  library,  the  collection 
of  ages,  the  repository  of  the  most  precious  monuments  of  the  ancient 
Britons,  &c.  ?  Ethelfrid  fell  on  the  banks  of  the  Idel,  in  Nottinghamshire, 
in  battle  against  Redwald. 


ROCHESTER.  6 1 


And  there  the  pile  thy  dearest  thought  had  cherished, 
Lay  smouldering  o'er  the  spirit  of  thy  bliss, 
Thy  tenderest  hopes  of  earthly  glory  perished, 
Expiring  on  the  red  flame's  crackling  hiss  : 
But  ere,  alas  !  thy  fortune  came  to  this, 
Thou  fled'st  in  terror  like  a  timid  deer, 
Oe'r  vale  and  plain  and  craggy  precipice, 
Imploring  heaven  thy  drooping  soul  to  cheer, 
And  save  thee  from  the  Danes — those  impious  lords  of  fear. 

Then  ancient  Coldingham  thy  home  became, 
Where  lived  the  classic  Bede  in  after  time, 
The  gifted  Saxon  of  enduring  fame, 
The  modest  genius  of  lore  sublime  : 
Here,  Ebba,  still  the  memory  of  crime 
Pursued  the  Abbess  of  this  holy  place  : 
The  heartless  Dane,  who  spared  not  virtue's  prime, 
In  dread  of  whom  thou  galled'st  thy  comely  face, 
Can't  now  defile  thy  dust,  which  never  knew  disgrace. 

Strange  ends  has  wanton  Desolation*  wrought ; 
Behold  where  splendour  girt  by  Power  did  dwell, 
And  mighty  Rome  the  hardy  Briton  fought, 
The  lonely  Hermit  seeks  his  quiet  cell 
'Mid  Vindomora's  ruins,  bound  to  quell 
The  world  within  him  which  his  soul  abhors  : 
A  waste  extends,  the  sheltering  woodlands  tell 
Of  safety — an  orison  he  pours, 
And  to  the  vaults  of  heaven  Imagination  soars. 

He  quaffs  the  sheeny  rill  like  star-beams  sparkling, 
Whose  placid  waters  are  his  only  mirror  ; 
With  Peace  he  wanders  by  the  forest  darkling, 
For  Solitude  for  him  has  got  no  terror  ; 
His  breast  is  calm  and  pure,  no  worldly  sorrow 
Distracts  the  pilgrim  of  this  sylvan  scene  ; 
If  life  has  nought  of  ecstasy,  no  horror 
Death  can  have  :  he  waits  with  brow  serene 
The  stroke  which  kings  approach  with  pale  and  trembling  mien. 

*  Five  or  six  centuries  after  the  destruction  of  the  Monastery,  we 
find  hermits  nestling  in  the  ruins  of  Vindomora. 


62  EBCHESTER. 


On  yonder  bank  washed  by  this  rippling  river, 
(Soft  sympathy  directs  my  tearful  eye 
To  him  whose  fate  e'en  blighting  Time  shall  never 
Brush  from  the  tablets  of  man's  memory), 
Brave  RadclifTe  !*  part  of  thy  possessions  lie  : 
The  hand  that  clothed  the  orphan,  fed  the  poor, 
And  checked  the  sorrow  of  the  widow's  sigh, 
Reclines  in  dust,  and  shall  relieve  no  more, 
While  England's  honoured  sons  thy  hapless  end  deplore. 

Thy  ancient  hall  has  crumbled  stone  by  stone ; 
Now  but  in  fragments  are  its  ruins  found, 
The  mantling  ivy's  emerald  tresses  thrown, 
Have  wrapped  those  more  than  hallowed  relics  round 
In  amorous  embrace,  as  if  'twere  bound 
To  save  them  from  the  revels  of  decay  : 
Here  silence  reigns  unbroken  by  a  sound, 
Save  when  some  songbird  from  the  trembling  spray 
Pours  forth  his  tender  notes  in  soul-enrapturing  lay. 

Lamented  Radcliffe  !  ill  thy  beauteous  face, 
Thy  open  hand  where  want  could  be  supplied, 
Thy  form  whose  symmetry  breathed  angel  grace, 
Where  all  the  virtues  dwelt  in  glowing  pride, 
Were  spared  by  those  who  reverenced  thee,  and  vied 
In  their  unrivalled  love  for  thee  and  thine  : 
Though  thou  hast  fought  by  foul  Rebellion's  side, 
Though  streaks  of  indiscretion  blot  thy  line, 
Thy  "  name  smells  sweet  of  Heaven" — there  may  thy  soul, 
too,  shine. 

"  Thy  creed  has  been  thy  curse,"  some  spirits  sing, 
At  least  so  far  as  earthly  prospects  go  : 
Alas  !  it  is  a  strange  and  awful  thing 
That  men's  opinions  should  work  such  woe  : 
Our  choice  of  ways  to  heaven  makes  many  a  foe 
'Mong  those  denying  charity  a  home, 
Whose  bosoms  never  wake  the  thoughts  which  glow, 
But  nurse,  like  narrow  cells,  the  midnight  gloom, 
Where  Love  and  Light  are  not,  and  Pity  finds  no  room. 

*  Radcliffe. — James,  third  Earl  of  Derwentwater,  who  owned  land 
on  the  left  bank  of  the  Derwent,  whose  misfortunes  are  too  well  known 
to  need  further  notice  here. 


EBCHES'l'EK.  63 


Then  shall  these  passions  pall  our  joys  for  ever, 
And  send  us  darkling  on  our  devious  road, 
Like  the  mad  torrents  of  a  mighty  river, 
Whose  vengeful  waters  have  its  banks  o'erflowed  ? 
No  !  let  us  hope  :  behold  a  change  abroad. 
The  Truth  shall  triumph,  Love  shall  yet  be  king, 
And  rid  the  earth  of  Hate,  encumbering  load, 
That  erst  did  mar  and  blight  affection's  spring, 
And  reign  supreme  o'er  earth  and  bliss  to  mortals  bring. 

Here,  where  the  skin-clad  painted  Briton  roved, 
The  Roman  triumphed,  and  the  Saxon  reigned, 
The  callous  plundering  Dane  beheld  unmoved 
The  bleeding  heart  his  passion  had  profaned, 
The  Norman  trod  when  Saxon  strength  had  waned, 
Peace,  lovely  Peace  !  is  monarch  of  the  spot, 
And  Happiness,  of  none  but  fools  disdained, 
Pervades  the  air,  the  castle,  and  the  cot, 
And  Virtue's  lovely  face  is  fair,  without  a  blot. 

This  tranquil  village  basks  in  heaven's  smile ; 
On  hills  surrounding  lordly  mansions  rise, 
The  brooklet  purling  to  the  flowers  the  while ; 
The  far  celestial  laverock's  melodies 
Rain  on  the  ear  like  angel's  symphonies  : 
The  backbird's  song  and  Derwent's  dashing  roar, 
Mingling  with  mother  Nature's  thousand  sighs, 
Fall  on  the  brain  with  power  unfelt  before, 
To  crush  the  meaner  thoughts  and  bid  the  nobler  soar. 

O  dove-eyed  Peace  !  how  comely  are  thy  ways, 
Impregnate  with  the  spirit  of  thy  sire  ; 
Who  knows  thee  best  is  worthiest  of  praise, 
For  ne'er  within  him  burns  unhallowed  fire, 
But  harps  attuned  by  Virtue's  siren  choir 
Across  his  breast  their  soothing  murmurs  fling  ; 
O  Peace  !  long  may,  the  minstrel  wake  his  lyre 
The  merits  of  thy  happy  reign  to  sing, 
But  give  the  highest  praise  to  Heaven's  Eternal  King. 


in  flDemor^  of  S>r,  IRenton.* 


DEATH  !  how  doubly  cruel  was  thine  arrow 
That  laid  our  generous  friend  for  ever  low, 
To  lie  oblivious  in  a  cavern  narrow, 
Where  neither  love,  nor  hope,  nor  light  may  glow, 

Nor  sunbeam  stray,  nor  soft-winged  zephyrs  blow ; 

But  rest  may  come  at  length  in  calm  repose. 

The  poor  have  lost  a  friend,  and  vice  a  foe, 

And  all  a  lofty  spirit,  which  arose 
Like  to  a  star  which  sheds  a  radiance  while  it  glows. 


*  John  Renton,  Esq.,  of  Orchard  House,  Shotley  Bridge,  long 
and  popularly  known  as  Dr.  Renton,  was  born  in  Edinburgh  on  the 
i2th  February,  1812,  and  was  educated  at  the  High  School  and  also 
at  the  University  of  his  native  city.  After  finishing  his  curriculum, 
he  was  engaged  as  assistant  to  Dr.  Lowrey,  of  Corbridge,  when  he 
began  to  manifest  those  sterling  qualities,  not  the  least  of  which  was 
an  unbending  moral  rectitude,  which  so  strongly  characterised  his 
after  life.  While  yet  a  young  man,  Mr.  Renton  began  practising 


DR.    RENTON.  65 


He  lived  not  for  himself ;  he  never  knew 
A  thought  which  would  disgrace  the  noblest  mind. 
Intelligence  was  stamped  upon  his  brow, 
Where  stern,  yet  tender,  passions  were  enshrined  ; 
A  spirit  always  brave  and  ever  kind, 
Which  threw  the  magic  of  its  spell  o'er  men, — 
An  airy  fetter  out  of  virtues  twined, — 
That  drew  them  round  him  as  he  would,  and  when 
They  most  of  reverence  felt  he  turned  to  earth  again. 


He  sank  to  earth  amid  the  sorrowing  tears 
Of  those  who  knew  him  best,  hence  loved  him  most, 
With  honours  gathered  from  the  rolling  years, 
And  virtues  that  e'en  monarchs  may  not  boast. 
They  shall  not  be  on  erring  mortals  lost ; 
Mankind  will  nurse,  as  hope,  his  memory, 
While  on  life's  changing,  billowy  ocean  tossed, 
And  breathe  its  glowing  lessons  to  the  free, 
Till  "  work  and  persevere  "  the  worthy  motto  be. 


on  his  own  account  in  the  little  village  of  Slaley,  but  his  sagacious 
judgment  soon  fixed  upon  Shotley  Bridge  as  a  locality  better  cal- 
culated for  the  development  of  his  plans  of  future  effort,  and  subse- 
quent events  proved  he  was  not  mistaken.  His  practice  gradually 
increased,  work  seemed  to  be  his  natural  element,  and  his  dispensing 
establishment  at  Slaley,  which  was  carried  on  for  some  years  after 
his  removal  to  Shotley,  received  the  most  unremitting  attention. 
Shortly  after  his  establishment  at  Shotley  Bridge,  he  had  the  good 
fortune  to  be  appointed  medical  attendant  to  the  Silvertop  family, 
and  so  satisfied  was  Mr.  Silvertop  with  the  medical  treatment  he 
received,  that  at  his  death  he  bequeathed  Dr.  Renton  one  hundred 
guineas  over  and  above  the  payment  of  his  bill.  Such  a  generous 
appreciation  as  this  of  the  professional  talent  of  Dr.  Renton  tended 
in  no  limited  degree  to  establish  him  in  popular  estimation.  About 
1854,  he  was  appointed  medical  superintendent  to  the  Consett  Iron 
Company's  workmen,  which  appointment  he  held  till  his  death  on 
February  i8th,  1870.  In  matters  pertaining  to  the  well-being  of  the 
locality  in  which  he  was  placed,  Dr.  Renton  was  ever  foremost.  He 
was  one  of  the  chief  promoters  of  the  first  agricultural  society  in  the 
district,  and  was  its  chairman  during  the  period  of  its  existence. 
He  was  also  one  of  the  first  to  establish  the  Horticultural  Society, 
contributing  largely  for  its  support  in  its  infancy,  and  justly  proud 


66  DR.   RENTON. 


Thus  in  our  bosoms  shall  he  still  live  on, 
Nor  thought  nor  deed  of  his  shall  pass  away ; 
Mind  walks  the  earth  with  Time,  and  he  had  one 
Fraught  with  the  lustre  of  refulgent  day  : 
Our  children's  children  may  be  heard  to  say — 
"  His  hand  was  open,  as  his  heart  was  true, 
"  He  sought  heaven's  gracious  bounty  to  repay 
"  Through  charity,  for  he  was  one  of  few 
"  Who  live  and  work,  that  they  at  length  some  good  may  do." 


of  its  growing  proportions.  Dr.  Renton  was  likewise  one  of  the 
management  committee  for  the  establishment  of  the  Gas  Company, 
and  was  for  many  years  chairman  of  the  board  of  directors  ;  indeed, 
in  everything  connected  with  the  prosperity  of  the  district,  he  was  a 
prominent  and  painstaking  supporter. 


Xouglv 


SING  no  slave  to  Luxury  and  Pride  ; 

An  humble  Poet- Artist  is  my  theme, 
Whom  Folly's  thoughtless  slaves  do  e'er  deride, 

Through  lacking  knowledge  of  the  heavenly  dream 
Which  sweeps  his  bosom  as  a  tameless  tide, 

Awak'ning  thoughts  that  as  a  torrent  team, 
As  Inspiration  drives  his  glowing  pen, 
Where  Folly  feels  the  lash,  and  writhes  again. 


*  Tom  Lough  was  born  at  Greenhead,  three  miles  west  of  Shotley 
Bridge,  at  the  commencement  of  this  century.  His  parents  afterwards 
removed  to  Muggleswick  with  their  family,  where  Tom  would  get  his 
first  education  in  reading,  writing  and  arithmetic  ;  and  learned  from  the 
romantic  scenery  around  him,  "  to  look  on  Nature  with  a  poet's  eye," 
to  tune  his  violin  to  the  voices  of  the  songbirds,  the  sighs  of  the  summer 
gales,  and  the  wails,  the  shrieks,  and  roars  of  the  winter  tempests.  His 
imitation  of  the  voices  of  the  latter  season  would,  I  have  no  doubt,  be 
the  most  perfect.  It  was  here  that  the  late  learned  George  Silvertop, 
Esq.,  of  Minsteracres,  found  Tom  and  his  brother  John  in  their  father's 
cottage,  plying  their  artistic  talents.  According  to  Haydon,  the  cele- 
brated painter,  when  Mr.  Silvertop  entered  the  cottage  he  found  the 
ceilings  and  walls  all  drawn  over,  and  models  of  human  limbs  and  arms 
in  clay  lying  about  in  all  directions.  Pope's  Homer  and  a  volume  of 


68  '   TOM  LOUGH. 


Robed  in  no  colours  gay  of  blushing  hue, 
Alas,  his  lot !  his  lot  of  clothes  are  bad ; 

Tattered  and  torn  about  his  person  view, 

And  then  thou'lt  think  of  Homer  and  grow  sad, 

Or  I  mistake  the  sympathy  that's  due 

"  The  child  of  song"  o'er  sinful  world's  gone  mad, 

And  then  please  draw  from  out  thy  purse  a  sum 

To  purchase  Twist  Tobacco,  Tea,  or  Rum.* 


*  These  verses  were  written,  and  printed  on  a  sheet,  with  a  view  of 
relieving  their  subject  during  a  period  of  great  privation. 

Gibbon  were  found  in  the  same  apartment.  The  lordly  owner  of 
Minsteracres,  finding  John  the  more  balanced  of  the  two,  invited  him 
to  go  and  see  him.  Lough  did  so,  and  his  patron  showed  him  the  works 
of  Michael  Angelo  and  Canova  ;  the  former  of  which,  according  to  his 
own  statement,  took  great  hold  of  his  mind.  This  kind  attention  on 
the  part  of  Mr.  Silveftop,  with  other  help  more  substantial,  afterwards 
bestowed,  had  undoubtedly  a  most  powerful  influence  for  good  on  John 
Lough's  successful  career.  Poor  Tom  often  told  me  how  jealous  he  was 
when  the  Squire  entered  the  cottage  lest  John  should  claim  some  of  his 
drawings,  and  remained  in  the  apartment  during  the  interview,  occa- 
sionally calling  the  visitor's  attention  to  some  of  his  drawings,  which, 
however,  were  not  destined  to  make  their  author  aught  beyond  a  local 
name,  nor  anything  in  the  shape  of  a  living  more  than  a  few  scant  coppers 
to  purchase  the  indespensable  tobacco  and  tea,  the  latter  of  which  was 
more  to  him  than  nectar  to  the  gods,  and  sometimes  a  glass  of  something 
stronger.  Alas,  for  comparison  !  Here  are  two  brothers,  who  started 
life  with  apparently  equal  chances,  both  with  strong  vigorous  constitu- 
tions, and  of  similar  education  ;  one  died  in  London,  after  having  made 
his  memory  immortal  as  a  sculptor  of  undeniable  genius,  in  wealth  and 
affluence  :  the  other,  after  roaming  through  the  counties  of  Northumber- 
land and  Durham  as  an  itinerant  musician,  poet,  and  artist,  for  more 
than  fifty  years,  begging  from,  praising  and  cursing  mankind,  sleeping 
at  night,  in  summer,  in  hayfields,  sheds,  caverns,  or  in  deep  dells  listen- 
ing to  the  voices  of  Nature,  in  winter  by  pit  fires,  in  gas  works,  on  the 
floors  of  inns,  and  the  commonest  lodging  houses,  but  never  in  bed  like 
an  ordinary  human  being,  died  at  Lanchester,  and  was  buried  in  a 
pauper's  grave,  partly  at  the  expense  of  the  parish  which  gave  him  birth, 
and  might  have  been  rendered  momorable  by  the  genius  which  few  will 
deny  that  he  possessed,  had  it  been  used  aright.  The  early  part  of 
Tom's  career  was  spent  near  the  head  of  the  Derwent,  as  a  blacksmith, 
sharpening  "jumpers,"  or  drills,  for  the  leadminers,  and  afterwards  in 
his  father's  blacksmith  shop  at  Greenhead,  in  shoeing  cattle  with  a  sort 
of  "  cleat,"  which  was  then  in  use  to  prevent  those  animal  becoming 
footsore  in  their  journey  from  the  north  to  southern  markets ;  but  the 
rhythmic  ring  of  the  anvil  did  not  suffice  for  the  softer  sounds  of  ever 
lovely  Nature,  nor  the  glare  of  the  forge  for  the  soothing  lights  of  the 
shadowy  woodlands,  or  the  golden  glow  of  the  setting  sun.  So  he  left 


TOAf  LOUGH.  69 


But  ere  thou  leav'st  the  presence  of  the  Bard 

(For  thou,  I  would,  should'st  know  him  thoroughly), 

Just  ask  him,  in  a  spirit  of  regard, 

To  draw  his  papers,  and  reveal  to  thee 

His  touch  artistic,  as  a  meet  reward  ' 
For  timely  aid  and  generosity  ; 

And  if  in  wond'rous  joy  thou'rt  not  repaid, 

To  grave  Miss  Fortune  may  I  be  betrayed. 


by  degrees  this  honourable  means  of  making  a  living,  and  took  to  a  life 
of  roaming  and  privation,  which  ended  as  above  described.  A  friend, 
who  knew  the  Lough  family  well,  told  me  that  Tom  commenced  his 
wandering  life  as  early  as  the  year  1826  or  1827.  When  the  engines  for 
the  Messrs.  Annandale's  paper  mills  were  being  laid  down,  the  engineers 
engaged  in  the  work  used  to  frequent  the  Bridge  End  Inn,  Shotley 
Bridge,  in  the  evenings,  where  Lough  often  turned  up  to  entertain  them 
with  the  Jew's  harp,  and  fiddle,  and  by  reciting  his  own  and  the  poems 
of  other  authors,  and  by  airing  his  drawing  talents.  His  forte  was, 
doubtless,  the  latter,  and  had  he  persevered,  we  might  have  had  a  dif- 
ferent story  to  tell.  His  favourite  subjects  in  drawing  were  the  "  Nincvite 
Bull,"  "  The  Flying  Ass,"  "  Group  of  Bacchanalians,"  Byron's 
"  Mazeppa,"  and  a  group  containing  two  human  figures  and  several 
savage-looking  horses  ;  the  latter  of  which  I  have  in  my  possession,  and 
feel  sure  that  were  it  engraved  it  would  preserve  the  memory  of  its 
authors  from  oblivion,  for  it  is  not  only  vigorously  drawn,  but  is  a 
wonderful  conception,  and,  with  other  productions  of  his,  shows  how 
his  mind,  stored  with  the  literature  of  Greece  and  Rome,  teemed  with 
imagery.  His  favourite  authors  were  Homer,  Virgil,  Shakespeare, 
Gibbon,  Byron,  and  Burns  ;  the  first  of  whom  he  had  read  earliest  and 
most  earnestly,  and  in  consequence  his  mind  received  the  strongest  of 
its  colours  from  the  great  Greek.  The  parts  of  Gibbon  referring  to 
religion  and  politics  he  could  recite  almost  word  for  word  ;  while  the 
portions  of  Byron's  "  Chilcle  Harold  "  which  revel  in  the  arts  of  Greece 
and  Rome,  and  the  great  and  glorious  names  of  those  empires,  were  to 
him  a  never-ending  source  of  pleasure,  wonder,  and  admiration.  His 
performances  on  the  violin  were  of  the  most  comical  character,  and 
produced  effects,  according  to  his  own  accounts,  that  have  never  been 
equalled  since  Orpheus  played  his  spouse  from  that  region  so  much 
dreaded  by  many  mortals.  Placing  the  fiddle  between  his  knees  when 
in  a  sitting  posture,  he  used  the  bow  vigorously,  and  thence  flowed 
strains  which,  as  fame  informs  us,  caused,  in  a  certain  inn,  in  Weardale, 
I  think,  panes  to  fly  out  of  the  windows,  the  pot  lid  to  fly  up  the  chimney, 
and  a  child  to  leap  from  the  cradle  of  its  slumbers,  and  dance  in  a  most 
unaccountable  manner.  It  was  here,  too,  I  believe,  that  he  drew  a  fox 
with  a  piece  of  charcoal  on  the  hearthstone,  which  the  terrier  dogs  with 
the  company  attempted  to  seize,  mistaking  it  for  a  living  reality.  Poor 
Lough  used  to  tell  me  those  absurd  stories  with  a  solemnity  that  could 
not  be  exceeded  by  the  gravest  Musselman.  Lough's  chief  poems  are 
"  Chatt's  Hare,"  "  Galloway  Jack,"  and  "  Ramshaw  Flood,"  all  of 
which  show  a  fair  amount  of  poetical  talent,  but  lack  rhythm.  Among 


70  TOM  LOUGH. 


Behold  from  Nineveh's  wide  fields  of  art 
Reflections  of  the  mighty  genius  there ; 

Enough  to  make  a  stone  or  Stoic  start, 

To  trace  the  life-like  forms  so  chaste  and  rare  ; 

Thou'lt  almost  deem  the'  actions  of  the  heart 
Thou  can'st  discern  in  bosom  bold  or  fair  ; 

Or  see  the  wing'd  ass  in  a  milky  sky, 

Rather  unlike  a  giant  eagle  fly. 


his  peculiarities  was  an  utter  hatred  to  the  colour  red,  an  aversion  to 
looking-glasses,  and  a  dislike  to  any  room  where  there  was  a  flood  of 
light  and  strong  reflection.  He  also  disliked  to  see  a  hole  in  the  wall, 
and  would,  if  allowed,  stuff  it  with  paper,  turn  the  looking-glass  around, 
and  cover  up  any  shining  ornament  which  offended  his  eye.  These 
peculiarities  of  character,  no  doubt,  sprang  out  of  his  very  high  tem- 
perament, his  long  acquaintance  with  the  soft  and  mellow  lights  of  the 
woodland,  his  natural  home,  which  knew  no  fiercer  reflection  than  the 
"waters  of  the  river,  streamlet,  or  lake,  placid  or  shimmering  beneath  a 
summer's  sun.  Lough  once  told  me  a  story,  which  I  had  also  heard 
from  another  source,  of  the  great  offence  he  gave  to  a  blacksmith,  near 
Castleside,  by  drawing  his  portrait  whilst  shoeing  a  wicked  donkey,  one 
of  whose  ears  was  placed  in  a  vice  to  keep  him  quief  during  the  operation. 
It  was  exceedingly  amusing  to  hear  poor  Lough  recite  "  Ramshaw 
Flood"  and  "  Galloway  Jack,"  the  latter  of  which  he  thought  a  better 
poem  than  "  Tam-o'-Shanter,"  considering  the  materials  out  of  which  it 
was  composed.  He  would  start  slowly,  and  with  great  attention  to 
pronunciation  and  articulation,  but  would  forget  both  as  he  became 
impelled  by  the  fire  of  the  pieces.  On  and  on  he  would  go,  with  his 
large  wild  eyes  fixed  on  some  inanimate  object,  astonishing  his  hearers 
with  matchless  volubility,  till  he  closed  with  a  jumble  of  sounds,  out  of 
which  it  was  hard  to  extract  a  single  word.  The  same  wild  eyes  were 
then  turned  inquiringly  upon  the  audience,  and  if  anyone  ventured  to  pass 
on  the  Bard  condemnatory  judgment,  he  at  once  became  the  object  of 
a  volley  of  epithets  that  Daniel  O'Connell  might  well  have  bee'n  proud 
of,  for  poor  Tom  revealed  a  most  powerful  vocabulary  of  abusive  lan- 
guage when  in  anger.  In  his  poems  there  are  many  evidences  of  want 
of  command  of  language,  but  when  his  indignation  was  roused  it  flowed 
from  him  like  raindrops  from  a  thundercloud.  Lough,  as  I  have  shown, 
had  wonderful  talents,  in  fact  he  was  a  genius  in  his  way,  but  he  was 
not  a  balanced  man.  Had  he  fallen  into  some  business  more  congenial 
to  his  nature,  and  into  mind  influences  of  a  higher  type,  there  can  be  no 
doubt  that  he  would  have  made  his  "  footprints  on  the  sands  of  Time." 
But  as  conjecture  in  this  case  is  vain  as  hope  without  action,  we  will 
leave  poor  Tom  to  his  slumbers,  and  take  warning  from  the  results  of 
his  failings  ;  nor  wholly  despise  the  memory  of  him  who  possessed  much 
in  common  with  the  greatest  and  noblest  of  minds — admiration  of  the 
highest  artistic  achievements  of  man,  and  a  love  of  the  peerless  beauties 
of  Nature  so  intense  that  no  human  language,  however  powerful,  could 
express  it. 


LOUGH.  71 


See  the  "  Mazeppa"  bound,  without  remorse 
(Like  a  foul  weed  given  to  the  tempest's  breath), 

Unto  the  bosom  of  the  furious  horse, 

Which  bears  him  onward  like  a  fiend  of  wrath. 

The  famished  wolves  assail  his  flying  course  ; 

Behold  the  languid  form  :  Thou'lt  deem  that  Death 

Is  stealing  o'er  his  features.     From  thine  eye 

A  tear  shall  steal, — thy  breast  shall  heave  a  sigh. 


Look,  ere  thou  leav'st  the  subject,  to  the  face 
Of  the  wild  bounding  brute,  and  not  in  vain 

Thy  cunning  eye  shall  various  passions  trace : 
Fear,  Desperation,  Vengeance  bound  in  pain 

Which  cannot  be  controlled.     Then  mark  the  grace 
Breathed  in  the  glorious  symmetry,  and  then 

Marvel  that  human  brains,  like  Lough's,  should  be 

The  gov'nor  of  so  strange  a  destiny. 


Now  rest  thine  eye  a  moment,  and  prepare 
Thy  soul  for  a  sublimer  vision,  sent 

Like  Raphael's  St.  Cecilia,  bright  and  fair 
To  build  her  medium's  earthly  monument : 

Lo  !  Hercules,  the  god  of  strength  so  rare, 
Amid  a  group  of  savage  horses  pent, 

Whose  power  to  his  were  as  the  crawling  worm 

To  the  dread  vi'lence  of  the  Simoon  Storm. 


Like  a  Colossus  see  the  mighty  stand  ; 

The  King's  wild  horses  are  his  playthings  now, 
Helplessly  writhing,  one  in  either  hand. 

Mark  the  fierce  brute  in  furious  flight  below, 
And  other  figures  Genius  can  command, 

Leaning  around,  whose  bosoms  seem  to  glow 
With  admiration  of  the  immortal  god 
Who  rules  the  things  about  him  with  a  nod. 


72  TOM  LOUGH. 


Next  the  huge  bull,  "  lord  of  the  lowing  herd," 
Savage  in  mood,  yet  beautiful  as  vast ; 

Here  Skill  designed  the  figure  it  preferred  : 
Then  look,  and  look  again  ere  it  hath  passed 

Into  Oblivion,  like  a  deed  or  word 

Unwritten.     Earth's  the  loser  :  shame  to  cast 

Such  works  as  this  away,  which  should  be  rolled 

With  Art's  best  deeds,  for  lack  a  little  gold. 


See  the  big  muscle,  the  elastic  limb, 
The  full  eye  and  the  harmony  of  form, 

The  Samson  strength  pent  up  so  tight  and  trim  ; 
Thou'lt  almost  deem  his  form,  like  thine,  is  warm, 

And  shrink  as  though  thou  felt  too  near  to  him  ; 
Then  forward  draw  again,  as  by  a  charm, 

And  every  moment  see  fresh  beauties  shine, 

And  wish  the  artist's  glowing  gift  were  thine. 


In  aspect  varied  see  the  frenzied  troop 

Of  "  Bacchanalians  "  free  from  gnawing  Care ; 

Some  stand  erect,  some  lean,  and  others  stoop, 
Or  fling  their  limbs,  and  gesture  mighty  queer : 

In  short,  they  are  a  most  ingenious  group. 
The  Artist's  eye  but  sees  them  to  revere 

The  grasping  skill  which  could  at  once  design 

So  wild  a  picture,  as  grotesque  as  fine. 


But  ere  thou  takest  a  long  and  last  farewell, 

Perchance,  of  him  who  charms  thine  ear  and  eye, 

Draw  from  his  wondrous  breast  another  spell — 
A  most  enchanting  spell — 'tis  Poesy. 

In  floods  of  pathos,  and  in  fun  he'll  tell 

How  "Ramshaw"  felt  the  vengeance  of  the  sky, — 

Of  Snowball's  rants,  and  "Chat's"  eternal  hare, — 

His  own  privations — mark  how  poets  fare  : — 


TOAf  LOl\;iL  73 


Alas  !  the  poet  has  no  other  choice 

Than  charm  the  world  and  suffer  for  his  pains ; 
The  heavenly  lark  trills  his  melodious  voice, 

And  cruel  sportsmen  scatter  wide  his  brains ; 
The  thrush  bids  echoes  wake  and  hearts  rejoice, 

The  pleasure  but  a  moment  there  remains  ; 
Next  view  this  same  heart  cherishing  a  will, 
Alas  !  the  thing  the  bosom  loved  to  kill. 


Thus  the  poor  poet  roams  the  world,  where  nought 
Around  he  loves  save  Nature's  comely  brow ; 

Apart  in  feeling,  and  apart  in  thought 

From  the  cold-hearted  and  unfeeling  crew, 

Who  are  with  savage  passions  ever  fraught, 

And  wait  their  coming  meed  of  vengeance  due ; 

Yet  he  who  suffers  for  fair  Virtue's  cause, 

Shall  live  for  ever  in  her  glorious  laws. 


So,  Lough,  though  thou  shalt  pass  away  from  earth, 
As  Burns  and  Bloomfield  did,  thou  shalt  not  die. 

Genius  with  Death  contracts  a  second  birth — 
The  birthright  of  an  Immortality  : 

Man  asks  himself  what  Fame  like  this  is  worth, 
When  dust  returns  to  dust,  from  feeling  free, 

But  seldom  finds  a  fit  and  proper  answer, 

For  darkling  lies  the  Future  never  man  saw. 


Cursed  be  the  hand  that  wields  on  Genius'  head 

The  rod  of  Persecution,  and  deprives 
The  gifted  sufferer  of  a  crust  of  bread, 

Ta'en  from  the  abundance  upon  which  he  thrives, — 
Who  wrongs  the  wretch  while  living,  but  when  dead, 

And  Talent  leaves  its  mark,  and  Memory  gives 
A  rapture  to  the  name,  piles  o'er  his  dust 
The  monument  to  him — he  could  not  spare  a  crust 


74  TOM  LOUGH. 


Enough  !  my  humble  lay  is  all  but  ended 
Of  him  whose  life  would  pile  a  curious  story 

Of  Love,  Hate,  Hope,  Despair,  and  Madness  blended, 
As  storms  and  tempests  with  the  sunbeam's  glory ; 

Who  drank  from  Nature  as  through  woods  he  wended, 
The  softer  hues,  but  hates  thy  colour,  Tory ; 

And,  reader,  should'st  thou  meet  him,  if  a  Red, 

He'd  wish  thy  colour  changed,  or  thou  wert_dead  ! 


H  !  if  in  thy  bosom,  a  moment  be  stirred 

A  thought,  the  sweet  offspring  of  pity  for  me, 

How  weak  the  expression  of  glance,  smile,  or  word, 

To  breathe  the  delight  of  my  spirit  would  be  ! 


I  look  not  to  Mammon  for  happier  days 

Than  those  that  were  spent  in  the  magic  of  youth  ; 

I  seek  not  for  blessings,  in  high-sounding  praise, 

From  those  who  would  dare  nought  for  Honour  and  Truth. 


For  riches  may  fly  when  the  sun  of  Success 

Seems  beaming  in  radiance  and  glory  the  while ; 

And  praises  are  fragile  as  bosoms  they  bless, — 
The  rainbow  best  emblems  the  light  of  a  smile. 


I  look  to  the  spirit,  though  trembling  like  thine, 
Lest  Sin's  sable  wing  waft  a  shade  o'er  thy  soul, 

Which  looks  to  the  Truth  as  its  object  divine, 

Like  the  needle  that  quivers,  yet  points  to  the  pole. 


<§>b!  tbe  IRobin  Singe  Sweet. 


H  !  the  Robin  sings  sweet  on  the  green  ash  tree, 

Where  the  old  Well  used  to  flow, 
But  nothing  he  knows  of  the  former  glee 

Of  the  days  so  long  ago  : 
Too  youthful  is  he  to  sing  or  tell 
Of  the  scenes  around  that  sparkling  Well. 


On  the  morning  bright,  or  gloaming  gray, 
How  many  have  gathered  here, 

To  laugh  the  merry  hours  away, 
Or  to  meet  the  one  most  dear  ? 

And  the  hills  around  with  echoes  rung, 

As  impassioned  songs  of  love  were  sung. 


Old  Well !  in  thy  waters  pure  and  bright, 

How  many  a  maiden  fair 
Has  viewed,  in  thy  mirror's  glancing  light, 

Her  form  and  flowing  hair, 
Ere  her  vessel  dipped,  and  the  ripples  flowed 
O'er  the  dancing  eyes  and  the  face  which  flowed  ? 


THE  ROBIN  SINGS  SWEET.  77 


And  older  ones  have  hither  come 

With  aspect  grave,  I  ween, 
Which  showed  that  Care  had  found  a  home 

Where  serener  looks  had  been ; 
For  the  form  had  gone  which  cheered  the  breast, 
And  left  it  Sorrow  and  Griefs  unrest. 


The  scene,  how  changed  !  since  those  vanished  days — 

The  waters  gone,  the  maids  have  fled, 
And  the  Summer  comes  with  scorching  rays  : 

'Tis  but  to  shine  on  thy  parching  bed, 
Where  once  a  mirror  of  beauty  shone, 
And  the  spot  is  sad,  and  drear,  and  lone ! 


Mlage  Ibiring. 


H  IRortb  ot  England  picture. 


|0  Sing  it  as  it  should  be  sung,  The  Hiring, 
Would  cost  the  poet  very  many  labours, 
For  'tis  a  subject  odd  to  tune  one's  lyre  on  : 

The  wild  grimaces,  curious  gestures,  capers, 
Which  Folly  stands  with  open  mouth  admiring, — 

Now  shaking  hands  politely  with  neighbours, 
The  country  lass  we  find  in  garments  gay, 
Industry  has  provided  for  this  day. 


Her  rosy  cheek  proclaims  Health's  blushing  reign, 
Her  sunny  aspect  breathes  tranquillity, — 

A  simple  modesty  which  cannot  feign — 
To  Nature  true ;  the  azure  of  her  eye 

Of  heaven's  hue  ;  her  lips  like  sunbeams  twain, 
Bright  as  the  gayest  tulip's,  crimson  lie 

Before  a  row  of  pearls  as  dazzling  white 

As  e'er  was  snow-wreath  'neath  the  strongest  light. 


THE  HIRING.  79 


He  whom  her  smile  has  blest  is  by  her  side, 
Forgetting  masters,  horses,  wages,  ploughs, 

The  emerald  fields  he's  pressed  in  wandering  wide, 
The  grazing  oxen,  and  the  harmless  ewes ; 

His  theme  is — Mary — when  she'll  be  his  bride  ! 
To  hush  the  fears  which  in  his  breast  carouse, 

Concerning  the  grave  proverb — "  Many  a  slip 

(You  know  its  truth)  occurs  'twixt  cup  and  lip." 


In  his  misgivings  I  have  had  experience, 

But  this  is  not  the  place  for  a  recital. 
Perhaps  'twill  be  .your  lot  to  hear  me  hence, 

Though  such  like  stories,  maybe,  wont  delight  all, 
Nor  might  they  be,  indeed,  the  true  criterions 

Of  a  superior  hope  ;  but  now,  despite  all, 
"  Like  Bunyan's  plodding  Pilgrim,  I'll  progress," 
With  fear  my  varied  text  will  please  you  less. 


Then  comes  the  jolly  farmer,  whose  complexion, 
Fanned  by  the  free  airs,  wears  a  healthy  glow ; 

The  maids  are  placed  before  him  for  inspection, 
"Like  four-and-twenty  fiddlers  in  a  row !" 

I  don't  admire  the  custom  on  reflection, — 
For  free-born  English  girls  'tis  rather  low ; 

But  it  has  grown  to  England  with  the  Tories, 

Though  brings  not  with  its  age  as  many  glories. 


He  (the  farmer)  eyes  with  care  each  blooming  lass, 
Or  lad,  just  as  his  need  directs,  of  course ; 

Some  questions  put,  you  know,  about  the  "  brass," 
They  ask  to  plough  or  sow,  to  milk  or  nurse, 

Few  cav'lings  as  to  sums  or  service  pass, 
Closes  the  bargain,  lest  he  might  do  worse, 

And  seals  it  with  a  glass  of  port  or  sherry, 

O'er  which  they  grow,  no  doubt,  a  little  merry. 


8o  THE  HIRING. 


If  e'er  you  gazed  upon  this  varied  throng, 

You've  seen  some  things,  I'm  sure,  to  wake  your  laughter 
The  ballad-monger  pouring  forth  his  song, 

The  screech-owl's  voice  had  been  a  great  deal  softer ; 
The  fiddle's  groans  and  squeals  blending  among 

A  thousand  other  sounds  which  come  unsought  for, 
To  bless  or  curse  our  little  cozy  village, 
And  break  the  silence  of  this  very  still  age. 


A  little  anxious  are  the  lads  and  maids 
Until  they've  got  their  vital  business  over ; 

This  done  at  length,  all  free  they  make  their  raids 
On  apples,  gingerbread,  and  nuts ;  moreover 

Beer,  rum,  and  whisky,  or  aught  that  aid 
Pleasure,  including  wild  beasts  under  cover, 

Monkeys,  elephants,  performing  bears, 

Which  play  the  vengeance  with  their  numerous  cares ! 


The  Showman,  in  full-feathered  eloquence, 
(Success  inspires  him)  he  exerts  his  powers ; 

"  To  Natural  History  he  makes  no  pretence," 
Yet  on  this  subject  dwells  for  many  hours  : 

"  This  tiger  is — you'll  see  it  at  a  glance, 
The  most  remarkablest  in  this  land  of  ours, 

To  which  from  the  Vest  Hingen  Hiles  'e  came, 

The  place  called  Bengal, — you  will  know  the  name. 


"  This  'ere's  a  coon,  a  native  of  America ; 

The  negroes  'unt  them  by  the  pale  moon  light 
With  jovial  singing,  pitched  upon  a  merry  key, 

When  triumph  smiles  and  wakes  their  wild  delight. 
That  there  barboon  has  climed  the  trees  in  Africa, 

And  this  'ere  cove's  a  panther  which  cries  by  night; 
While  yonder  curious  customer,  the  hape, 
Was  bred,  brought  up,  and  captured  near  the  Cape. 


THE  HIKING.  81 


"  That  soft  'aired  gentleman,  why,  'e's  a  possum, 
Sometimes  pretends  'e's  dead  as  any  nail, 

And  truth  I  tell,  Sir,  you  might  take  and  toss  'im 
Over  a  'ouse  top  by  his  bushy  tail ; 

If  'e  'ad  senses  you  would  think  'e'd  loss  'em, 
But  soon  'e  turns  up,  'arty,  strong,  and  'ail ; 

He,  the  brave  hypocrite,  as  you  could  show, 

Would  rather  die  than  run  from  any  foe." 


"  A  strange  beast  is  the  'possum,  still  more  strange 

Was  one  I  had  not  very  long  ago ; 
There's  not  a  lady  'ere  more  prone  to  change 

Her  dress  than  'e  'is  colour,  now  aglow 
With  red,  now  blue,  now  green  would  range, 

Like  waves  athwart  'is  skin ; — 'tis  even  so  : 
'Es  called  the  camelion,  and  he  lives  on  hair — 
A  cheap  food,  stranger,  hisn't  it,  that  "ere?" 


"  He  lives  on  hair,"  quoths  Betsy,  "  why  that's  grand  ; 

What  kind  of  hair,  Sir,  does  the  animal  eat?" 
"  My  dear,  you  'ardly  seem  to  hunderstand  : 

'Tis  hatmospheric  hair — it  hisn't  meat ! 
Though  you  and  hi  live  on  it  as  we  stand, 

Without  it,  Miss,  we  couldn't  keep  our  feet. 
I  wonder  what  would  take  'em  from  us  ever  ? 
I  never  eat  no  hatmospheric  hair,  no  never ! 


"  That  helephantine  beauty  as  you  see, 

Tm  with  the  small  heyes  in  their  sockets  sunk, 

'E  is  hendowed  with  great  sagacity, 

Though  looks  as  sage  and  serious  as  a  monk." 

"  I  say,  Mr.  Showman,  is  that  he 

I  saw  the  other  day  packing  his  trunk  ?" 

"  O  yes,  Sir  !  this  is  in  my  list  of  marvels  ; 

'F,  hahv.iys  packs  'is  hown  trunk  when  'e  travels!" 


82  THE  HIKING. 


"  That  Polar  bear,  so  beautiful  and  white, 
Was  captured  by  McClintock's  hexpedition 

To  the  North  Pole,  (where  frosts  hare  said  to  bite), 
In  search  of  Franklin,  and  for  hexhibition 

Sold  'im  to  me  for  your  hexpress  delight ; 
To  make  you  'appy  is  my  sole  hambition, — 

Behold  'is  Majesty  before  we  sever, — 

Aint  he  a  beauty  and  a  joy  for  ever? 


"  And  now,  my  friends,  the  hexibition's  hover ; 

I  'opes  you're  satisfied  with  what  you've  seen. 
Pray  tell  the  people,  who  outside  may  'over, 

Of  these,  my  curiosities,  I  mean  ; 
My  wild  beasts,  'armless  as  the  turtle-dove,  or 

Paragon  of  hinnocence  serene. 
Good  night !     Wishing  you  hall  well  married,  and 
Fortune,  'ealth,  'appiness  at  your  command!" 


Now  linked  in  couples,  plodding  home  they  go, 
Discussing  all  the  pleasures  of  the  day, — 

The  dance,  the  dress,  the  marvels  of  the  show, 
Sighing  "  another  Hiring's  passed  away," 

And  wondering  if  they'll  like  their  place  or  no, 
Reaching  their  home  with  dress  in  sad  array. 

And  since  we've  traced  them  to  their  parting  place, 

We'll  turn  our  head  to  "  screen  the  dear  embrace." 


3  Gbinfc  of  Ghee. 

©n  tbe  flDemon?  of  a  Deao  jf  rienfc. 


HEN  lonely,  sad,  and  Mem'ry  flings 

Her  darkling  tempests  o'er  my  mind, 
As  some  huge  bird  whose  mighty  wings 

In  motion  leave  a  storm  behind  ; 
When  strolling  'neath  the  glorious  moon 

Whose  soft  light  floods  the  earth  and  sea, 
And  silence  under  midnight's  noon 
With  beauty  dwells,  I  think  of  thee. 


When  on  some  beauteous  face  I  look, 

Where  Modesty  and  Virtue  shine, 
And  read,  as  in  a  lettered  book, 

Eternal  Wisdom's  gift  divine, 
And  muse  on  orbs  where  soul-beams  stray, 

Or  lights  of  other  worlds  I  see, 
I  turn  forgetful  of  their  ray 

And  liquid  glance,  and  think  of  thee. 


When  contemplating  Truth  and  Worth, 

The  Courage  which  inspires  the  brave, 
In  what  the  noblest  joys  have  birth, 

Through  pointing  o'er  the  gloomy  grave, 
The  source  which  gives  the  soul  its  power, 

The  glowing  heart  its  charity, 
When  gazing  on  thy  favourite  flower 

I  cannot  choose  but  think  of  thee. 


84  /  THINK  OF  THEE. 


When  blighted  hopes  become  my  theme, 

And  Sorrow  tells  my  fevered  brain 
How  Life  and  Joy  are  all  a  dream, 

And  Pleasure's  smile  is  frail  and  vain  ; 
When  Love,  which  lives  through  Death  came  down, 

Speaks  to  my  breast  no  longer  free, 
Where  spirit-stirring  voices  tune 

And  sweetly  blend,  I  think  of  thee. 


Where  God  His  gathered  forms  has  laid 

In  grassy  tombs  with  flowers  adorned, 
And  Sorrow  seeks  the  solemn  shade, 

And  oft  in  sable  garb  has  mourned ; 
When  blighted  in  its  fairest  bloom 

By  Death  the  lily  pale  I  see, 
An  offering  for  an  early  tomb 

Ere  summer  fade,  I  think  of  thee. 


I  think  of  thee  when  Fancy  soars 

To  that  high  central  home  of  love  ; 
If  Virtue  seek  those  hallowed  shores, 

In  sceptred  glory  there  thou'lt  rove  ; 
How  sweet  the  hope — the  dream  how  dear, 

When  Time  hath  set  my  spirit  free, 
To  leave  remorse  and  anguish  here 

And  mix  eternal  joy  with  thee. 


Ottoman's  Beauty. 


IS  not  the  smile  on  Beauty's  face, 
Nor  tints  that  brighten  there, 
Nor  glancing  eyes  of  darting  rays, 
Nor  lavish  sunny  hair  ; 


'Tis  not  the  symmetry  of  form, 

Enchanting  to  the  eye, 
The  swan-like  neck,  the  rounded  arm, 

The  breast  where  gods  might  sigh 


To  dwell  and  pass  a  languid  hour  ; 

Nor  is  it  costly  dress 
That  constitute  the  highest  power 

Of  woman's  loveliness. 


86  W0MANS  BEAUTY. 


It  is  the  sweet,  soft,  sounds  which  flow 
In  converse,  of  chaste  thought, 

The  breast  that  shares  another's  woe, 
The  humbleness  of  heart ; 


The  hand  that's  lifted  but  to  bless, 
The  tongue  whose  accents  soothe, 

Lips  that  but  know  Affection's  kiss, 
And  Purity  and  Truth  ; 


The  eye  that  scans  not  faults  to  throw 

Into  a  vulgar  ear, 
But  true  to  Pity's  touch  will  pour 

Full  many  a  briny  tear ; 


The  open  brow  that  speaks  of  calm, 
The  winning,  frank  address, 

That  constitute  the  highest  form 
Of  woman's  loveliness. 


fforget^me^flot.* 


HOU  dream  of  life,  thou  hope  in  death, 
When  dread  Oblivion  wraps  the  clay, 
Which  erst  had  nursed  the  vital  breath, 

And  quaffed  and  blessed  the  living  ray ; 
For  thee,  the  poet's  soul  sublime, 

Pours  rapture  through  his  skilful  plot, 
Extolling  virtue,  gilding  crime, 

Thou  radiant  star  !  Forget-me-not ! 


The  father  stretched  on  languor's  couch, 

Who  knows  that  by  to-morrow's  sun 
He  shall  be  chilled  by  Death's  cold  touch, 

Time  past,  Eternity  begun  ; 
The  mother  in  her  last  farewell 

Of  loved  ones  who  had  blessed  her  lot, 
Feel  in  their  bosom's  parting  swell, 

Thy  language,  fair  forget-me-not ! 


*  This  small  herbaceous  plant,  the  Marsh  Scorpion-grass  ( '  Myosotis 
falustns)  is  well-known  to  lovers  of  flowers  as  the  emblem  of  affection 
and  fidelity.  The  author  deals  more  with  what  the  word,  or  compound 
of  words,  forget-me-not,  suggests,  than  this  delicate  and  charming  little 
flower  itself,  as  will  easily  be  discovered  by  the  intelligent  reader. 


88  FORGE  T-ME-XO  T. 


The  sailor  dares  the  booming  main, 

The  tempest's  shriek,  the  raging  waves  j 
The  warrior  braves  the  gory  plain 

Where  thousands  find  untimely  graves  ; 
Explorers  pierce  to  realms  unknown, 

And  smile  in  Danger's  face,  I  wot ; 
Ambition  seeks  a  golden  throne, 

Through  dreaming  thee,  forget-me-not ! 

When  Honour  bleeds  'neath  Slander's  tongue, 

By  creeping  things  infesting  earth, 
The  passions  for  a  moment  strung, 

To  thoughts  of  vengeance  do  give  birth  ; 
But  Calm  comes  down  and  Anger  flies, 

And  Worth,  though  it  be  in  a  cot, 
Upon  the  glowing  truth  relies — 

"  Mankind  and  Heaven,  forget-me-not !" 

When  Love's  enchantments  thrill  the  soul, 

And  lover's  mingle  heart  in  heart  ; 
The  noiseless  moments  as  they  roll 

Too  quickly  tell  that  they  must  part ; 
What  adoration  fills  their  eyes 

(Soft  passion  !  shall  it  be  forgot  ?) 
Now  Rapture  speaking  in  their  sighs 

Says  to  each  breast,  "  forget-me-not !" 

Religion  soars  the  Heaven's  height 

Through  dens  of  crime,  disease,  and  strife, 
With  yonder  beamy  torch  of  light, 

Lit  at  thy  fire,  Eternal  life  ; 
And  as  the  bearer  fainting  dies, 

His  Soul,  which  knows  no  earthly  blot, 
Says  through  the  language-gifted  eyes, 

"  O  gracious  God  !  Forget-me-not !" 


me  a  Soncj. 


SING  me  a  song,"  said  a  hoary  Knight, 

To  a  maiden  soft  and  fair, 
"  That  will  fill  my  soul  with  a  keen  delight 

And  rid  my  breast  of  care  ; 


But  let  its  rhyme  be  of  the  olden  time, 
Of  a  merit  rich  and  rare. 


"  Thou  art,  alas  !  the  only  child 

My  God  hath  left  to  me  ; 
Then  sing  me  a  song,  let  the  air  be  wild, 

And  the  strain  as  full  and  free 
As  the  zephyr's  sweep  o'er  the  sounding  deep, 

Or  the  songs  of  Syrens  be. 


"  My  daughter,  thou  hast  thy  mother's  voice, 

And  her  motions  every  one  ; 
But  she  became  her  Father's  choice, 

And  dwells  beyond  the  sun. 
Now  slow  rolls  Time  on  his  march  sublime, 

Since  that  angel  form  has  gone." 


O  !  music  had  in  sorrow's  hour, 

On  the  soul  of  the  gray-haired  chief, 

A  thrilling  and  immortal  power, 
Nor  always  brought  relief ; 

For  it  lilts  or  mourns  as  the  bosom  turns 
To  the  spirits  of  Joy  or  Grief. 


90  SING  M£  A   SONG. 


Then  an  ancient  harp  the  maiden  took, 
Whose  chords  for  years  had  slept 

'Gainst  an  antique  wall,  on  a  carved  oak  hook, 
Where  the  spiders  and  moonbeams  crept ; 

That  magician  hand  could  sounds  command 
And  by  turns  it  rejoiced  and  wept. 


It  poured  through  that  old  majestic  hall 

A  medley  of  soft  sounds, 
Like  the  weird  voice  of  the  waterfall, 

Which  from  rock  to  rock  rebounds  ; 
And  it  wakened  thought  with  feeling  fraught, 

That  stung  like  the  adder's  wound. 


It  told  the  tale  of  former  years, 

And  the  glories  of  her  sire, 
.  His  martial  deeds  in  Honour's  wars, 

The  love  of  his  first  desire  ; 
And  the  echoes  rang  as  the  maiden  sang 

With  more  than  her  wonted  fire. 


The  strain  had  wept  itself  to  rest, 
And  the  maiden's  cheeks  were  wet 

As  she  turned  to  gaze  on  her  father's  face, 
Who  in  deathly  silence  sat ; 

For  his  face  was  pale  as  the  mountain  hail 
Which  a  winter  moon  has  lit. 


She  took  his  hand,  but,  O  God  !  the  chill 

That  o'er  her  bosom  sped  ; 
"  Had  my  simple  song  the  power  to  kill  ? 

My  sire  !  my  sire  is  dead  !" 
She  lifted  the  lid  that  his  eyeball  hid, 

But,  alas  !  the  light  had  fled. 


Ibopeless. 


MARK  her  stand  by  a  glittering  stream, 

(In  the  hush  of  a  Summer  eve), 
Which  shimmers  in  Sol's  refulgent  beam, 

Ere  he  takes  of  our  earth  his  leave, 
And^the  crimson  clouds  of  the  western  sky 
Have  caught  the  tinge  of  his  burnished  eye. 


Through  the  swaying  boughs  the  breezes  sweep, 

And  they  kiss  the  radiant  tide, 
Which  seems  to  rise  from  slumbers  deep, 

(As  from  sleep  a  beauteous  bride, 
All  glowing  from  dreams  of  the  forms  she's  won), 
To  bid  farewell  to  the  dying  sun. 


And  songs  of  love  from  the  warbler's  throat, 
(Are  poured  to  the  balmy  gale), 

Which  from  crag  to  crag  in  echoes  float, 
And  a  thousand  joys  reveal ; 

And  the  troutlet's  leap  from  his  watery  bed 

The  circling  ripples  above  him  shed. 


92  HOPELESS. 


But  'tis  not  on  the  shimmering  wave  to  gaze 
That  her  footsteps  hither  rove  ; 

No  charms  for  her  has  Sol's  fair  rays, 
And  the  calm  she  may  not  love ; 

Nor'  can  the  hues  of  the  blushing  west 

Bring  to  her  heart  its  wonted  rest. 


Nor  whispering  zephyrs  can  soothe  her  soul, 
Nor  laverock's  trill,  nor  linnet's  song, 

Nor  soft-voiced  echoes  as  they  roll 
From  hill  to  hill  on  the  breeze  along, 

Nor  the  circling  waves  where  the  troutlets  roam, 

Can  drive  her  griefs  from  their  cherished  home. 


With  steadfast  eye  on  the  waters  bright 
She  looks,  but  through  torrid  tears, 

Nor  on,  nor  within  them,  no  laughing  light 
In  her  burning  orbs  appears  ; 

For  her  darkling  thoughts  are  in  awful  force, 

And  her  breast  is  a  hell  where  writhes  remorse. 


Now  crowd  the  passions  of  all  her  past, 
And  torture  her  fevered  brain, 

Till  like  the  seas,  'neath  a  rushing  blast, 
Her  bosom  heaves  with  pain  ; 

Now  a  mother's  love  is  blended  here 

With  a  knawing  sin  and  a  wild  despair. 


Now  the  cherished  hours  of  "  love's  young  dream" 

In  the  light  of  her  vision  shine, 
And  a  moment  dazzle  as  they  beam, 

And  with  Hope's  enchantments  twine, 
But  pallid  turn  in  reflection's  eye 
And  beneath  the  Truth  decline  and  die. 


HOPELESS.  93 


A  fluttering  noise  behind  me  near, 

I  turn  for  a  moment  now  : 
But  hark  !  what  noise  is  that  I  hear  ? 

What  ruffles  the  water's  brow  ? 
A  bubbling  groan  sweeps  o'er  my  heart, 
And  thrills  of  horror  through  me  dart. 


The  waves  again  are  calm  ;  beneath 

A  youthful  form  is  laid, 
Which  early  sought  the  sleep  of  Death, 

By  Sorrow's  ills  betrayed  ; 
The  first  dark  step — the  nursing  wrong — 
'Tis  but  a  line  of  the  old,  old  song. 


Spring. 


jjAILY  them  comest  o'er  mountain  and  plain, 
Lake,  burn,  and  river,  and  wide  booming  main, 
Scattering  wild  flowers  like  gems  on  the  green, 
Giving  a  rapture  to  every  scene  ; 

Filling  with  melody  every  grove, 

Breathing  through  Beauty — Hope,  Pleasure,  and  Love  : 

From  youth's  cheek  the  radiant  roses  must  sever, 

But  thou  in  thy  glory  returnest  for  ever  ! 


Thou  breath'st,  and  the  storm-king  is  hushed  to  repose, 

The  air  rings  with  song,  and  the  flowers  disclose, 

The  earth  dons  its  em'rald,  the  heavens  their  blue, 

And  man's  aspirations  are  nobler  now ; 

His  eyes  softly  fall  on  the  beauties  of  earth, 

And  thoughts  of  their  Author  like  joys  spring  to  birth  ; 

These  flash  on  his  dark  soul  as  night-lightnings  quiver, 

The  gloom  still  remains  :  Spring  !  thou  brighten'st  for  ever ! 


Fair  Spring  !  thou  recallest  the  morn  of  life 
Ere  the  calm  of  my  bosom  had  perished  by  strife, 
Or  the  world  in  its  hollowness  dawned  on  my  soul, 
Which  Innocence  held  in  her  silken  control ; 
And  wak'st  with  thy  presence  remorse  and  its  pang, 
As  with  a  dark  tempest  my  bosom  were  wrung. 
Oh  !  thus  youth  must  fall  into  Time's  silent  river, 
But  Spring  !  thou'rt  eternal — thou  comest  for  ever  ! 


SPKJNG.  95 


Thou  com'st  like  a  maid  in  the  bloom  of  her  charms, 
Flinging  around  her  enchantments  and  balms, 
Robed  in  soft  emerald,  glowing  with  rays 
Till  animate  nature  awakes  to  her  praise  ; 
And  the  accents  of  pathos  like  spirits  go  forth, 
Flooding  the  world  with  her  beauty  and  worth  ; 
Her  bloom  shall  decline,  spite  of  Virtue's  endeavour, 
But  Spring  !  thou  return'st,  and  art  lovely  for  ever  ! 


Afar  in  a  region  no  mortal  hath  seen, 

Save  with  faith-gifted  eyes  ever  calm  and  serene, 

Where  the  tempests  of  Hate  and  the  follies  of  Pride, 

War,  Famine,  and  Vengeance  may  never  abide  ; 

There  the  soul  hath,  her  Spring,  and  no  Autumn  shall  know, 

All  pure  in  her  triumph  and  glory  shall  glow  ; 

No  blossom  will  fade,  nought  affections  can  sever, 

But,  wedded  to  Love,  she  shall  flourish  for  ever  ! 


H.&X. 


Cannot  but  linger  wherever  thou  art, 
Thou  gem  of  my  fancy,  thou  queen  of  my  heart ; 
Whatever  the  passions  my  bosom  entwine, 
In  the  sunlight  of  Joy,  or  in  Sorrow  I'm  thine  ! 
Ere  Fortune  had  hallowed  my  lot  with  thy  smile, 
A  lone  restless  pilgrim  I  roved  o'er  our  Isle ; 
Nor  all  the  enchantments  its  glories  could  show, 
Could  breathe  to  my  spirit  what  thou  can'st  bestow. 


It  is  not  that  wit  in  its  flashes  bursts  forth 

From  thy  lips  that  I  gather  the  pride  of  thy  worth, — 

It  is  not  the  tinge  of  that  lip,  or  thy  cheek, 

Which  to  Love-ravished  swains  such  a  passion  can  speak,- 

It  is  not  thy  locks,  which  are  beauteous  in  hue, 

Or  the  snow  of  thy  neck,  or  thy  fair  beaming  brow ; 

'Tis  the  glances  of  Love,  and  thy  Virtues  alone 

So  entrancing,  that  make  me  for  ever  thine  own. 


The  mountains  pour  rapture  sublime  on  the  eye, 
As  majestic  they  tower  through  the  azure  on  high ; 
The  flowers  of  the  valley  have  charms  for  my  soul, 
The  streamlets  breathe  music  and  joy  as  they  roll, 
The  forests  in  Grandeur's  solemnity  nod, 
And  speak  to  my  spirit,  thro'  Nature,  of  God, 
Whose  mighty  creations  give  pleasure  and  rest, 
But  God  giving  me  thee  linked  me  e'er  with  the  blest. 


Gbere  Olacfcetb  Sometbtng  Still" 


HOUGH  Winter,  with  his  gusty  snow, 

Hath  gone  from  mount  and  lea, 
And  the  living  rays  of  Spring  bestow 

A  robe  on  every  tree, — 
The  flowers  unfold 
Their  leaves  of  gold, 

Adorning  dale  and  hill, — 
Though  Light  and  Love 
Invest  the  grove, 

"  There  lacketh  something  still." 


Though  lav'rocks  lave  the  landscape  fair 

With  living  lays  of  love, 
And  thrush  and  blackbird  (heavenly  pair !) 

Pour  rapture  through  the  grove, — 
Though  soothing  shade, 
In  every  glade, 

Whence  rolls  the  rippling  rill, 
Absorbs  the  light, 
And  breathes  delight, 

"  There  lacketh  something  still." 


THERE  LACKETH  SOMETHING  STILL. 


Though  azure  is  the  radiant  sky, 

And  warm  our  mother  earth, 
Where  many  a  gem  of  beauty's  dye 

Awakes  to  wonted  birth, — 
Though  greener  grows 
The  fern  which  blows 

By  yonder  sombre  Mill, 
And  everything 
To  beauty  spring, 

"There  lacketh  something  still." 


Though  maiden's  love  my  bosom  bless, 

And  drive  away  my  care, 
The  rapture  of  her  glowing  kiss 

Can  steal  me  from  despair, — 
Though  Fortune's  smile 
My  soul  beguile, 

My  breast  with  pleasures  thrill, — 
Though  Summer  comes 
With  sweet  perfumes, 

"  There  lacketh  something  still." 


It  is  the  want  of  Faith  which  brings 

Our  sad  satiety. 
The  breasts  of  peasants  and  of  kings 

Have  been  a  prey  to  thee ; 
And  whatsoe'er 
The  joys  we  share, 

Are  pleasures  Earth  has  given, 
And  fade  away, 
As  flowers  decay, — 

"  There's  nothing  true  but  Heaven." 


Spirit  of  Beauty 


!  SPIRIT  of  Beauty, 

How  oft  have  I  seen 
The  glance  of  thine  eye 

O'er  the  flower-spangled  green, 
In  the  dew-drop  which  beams 
On  the  brow  of  the  rose, — 
In  the  clouds  of  the  dawn, 
And  the  evening's  close  ; 
All  Nature's  impregnate, 
Fair  Spirit,  with  thee, 
And  dear  is  the  glow 
Of  thy  presence  to  me  ! 


When  the  mild-breathing  Spring 

Throws  her  mantle  of  green, 
And  gives  to  the  streamlet 

Its  shimmering  sheen, 
And  wakes  the  wild  warbler 

His  love-lays  to  pour, 
In  symphonies  sweet, 

Through  the  shadowy  bower, 
Tis  then  I  behold  thee 

In  all  that  I  see, 
For  dear  is  the  glow 

Of  thy  presence  to  me  ! 


SPIRIT  OF  BEAUTY. 


Where  Virtue  and  Purity  dwell, 

Thou  art  there, — 
In  the  maiden's  blue  eye 

And  her  soft  sunny  hair ; 
Where  Charity  mild 

Takes  her  seat  in  the  heart, 
And  rules,  like  a  monarch, 

With  magical  art, — 
Inspiring  the  deed, 

From  all  Selfishness  free ; — 
How  dear  is  the  glow 

Of  thy  presence  to  me  ! 

Thou  Star  in  the  soul 

Of  the  Poet,  how  sweet 
His  communings  with  thee 

In  the  lonely  retreat ! 
Who  treasures,  deep-shrined 

In  his  innermost  part, 
The  language  thou  breath'st, 

Until  married  to  Thought, 
When  it  flows  to  thy  praises, 

Like  rain  on  the  lea ; 
Then  dear  is  the  glow 

Of  thy  presence  to  me  ! 

Thy  home,  when  Perfection 

Has  crowned  thee  as  Queen, 
Is  the  soul  of  the  Just, 

Far  in  Heaven's  serene ; 
Which  Faith,  with  her  prophet-like 

Eye,  shows  us  here, 
Where  nothing  can  mar  thee 

Of  Sorrow  or  Fear, 
And  Sin  may  not  enter, 

But  all  shall  be  Free  ; — 
How  dear  then  the  glow 

Of  thy  presence  will  be  ! 


Xine0  Httoreseefc  to  flDr.  H.  Iprior  on  bi0 


Brifcal 


AY  Glory  await  on  thy  young,  gentle  bride, 

In  whose  full  flush  of  beauty  thou  tak'st  to  thy 

breast : 

Such  bliss  Alexandra  alone  has  supplied 
To  our  own  noble  Prince  of  this  Isle  of  the  blest 


You  are  worthy  each  other.     While  England  reclines 
On  her  lineage — the  brightest  the  world  ever  gave ! 

Thy  country,  Old  Denmark,  untarnished  still  shines 
With  the  Saxon  and  Roman — the  best  of  the  brave  ! 


Oh !  make  her  a  home  in  yon  far  Royal  town, 
All  radiant  with  gladness,  to  equal  her  birth ; 

Dispel  not  one  ray  of  her  joy  with  a  frown, — 

Let  THY  English  maid  crown  the  pride  of  thy  worth. 


LhVES  ON  MR.    PXIOJfS  BXIDAL    DA  Y. 


When  Gaiety's  glories  are  mingling  around  thee, 
And  other  bright  eyes  pour  their  magic  on  thine, 

Remember  the  eyes  whose  effulgence  spell-bound  thee, 
Twining  rays  into  fetters  of  virtues  divine. 


And  oh  !  let  us  charge  thee,  when  Time's  busy  finger 
Has  chased  from  those  lineaments  charms  that  abound, 

To  cherish  her  still,  as  when  turning  to  linger, 

And  strengthen  in  Love  for  some  charm-hallowed  ground. 


(TDerrp, 


IS  merry,  'tis  merry,  when  Winter  flies, 
And  Spring's  first  gale  through  the  woodland  hies, 
And  the  first  fair  flowers  from  their  prison  wake, 
Their  odours  abroad  o'er  the  land  to  shake ; 

And  the  gush  of  song  from  the  warbler's  throat, 

Like  spirits  of  love  on  the  soft  airs  float, 

And  Aspiration  seizes  then 

The  softening  hearts  of  wayward  men ! 


'Tis  joyous,  'tis  joyous,  when  Summer  comes, 
With  her  foliage  dark  and  her  thousand  blooms; 
And  the  lovely  meadows  their  balms  retain, 
And  cereals  wave  on  the  fertile  plain ; 
And  the  liquid  tune,  by  the  streamlet  played, 
Is  floating  in  echoes  from  glade  to  glade ; 
And  Luxuriance  reigns  o'er  the  season's  pride, 
With  hallowing  Beauty  for  his  bride. 


'Tis  solemn,  'tis  solemn,  to  wander  by 
The  mountain  stream,  'neath  an  Autumn  sky, 
When  the  emerald  folds  of  Summer's  dress 
Have  changed,  but  to  hues  of  loveliness, 
Whose  glorious  tints  breathe  to  the  soul 
The  thrilling  truths  of  a  mortal's  goal ; 
And  Reflection  gives  to  the  wand'rer's  breast 
The  promise — the  hope  of  eternal  rest. 


104  'TIS  MERRY. 


'Tis  gloomy,  'tis  gloomy,  when  Winter  frowns 

O'er  mountain,  plain,  and  hazel  downs ; 

When  the  whistling  winds  through  the  woodlands  fly, 

And  dark  clouds  obscure  the  stormy  sky ; 

When  faint  and  weary  the  beggars  roam, 

Without  a  hope,  and  without  a  home ; 

And  the  poor  lone  widow  and  orphan  share 

The  sorrow  that  springs  from  a  cupboard  bare. 


O,  mortal  of  thought !  is  it  all  in  vain 

That  the  seasons  change,  and  the  throbbing  brain 

Records  the  fact  that  Decay  must  come, 

To  quench  the  light  and  destroy  the  bloom, 

And  sweep  from  Beauty's  galaxy 

The  fairest  maid  with  the  radiant  eye  ? 

And  the  strong  and  the  wise  to  his  laws  succumb, 

To  sleep  in  silence  within  the  tomb  ? 


IBapoleon  333. 


JORLORN  Napoleon  !  in  thy  breast 

What  passions  revel  now  ! 
At  length  does  thy  ambition  rest, 
As  a  wounded  eagle  in  her  nest, 
Pent  on  some  crag's  bleak  brow, 
From  which  she  gazes  o'er  the  plain 
Her  pinions  ne'er  may  stretch  again. 


Torn  from  the  land  thy  greatness  gave 

Another  fadeless  wreath, 
O  !  would  that  thou  had'st  sought  the  grave 
Where  moulder  now  thy  vanquished  brave, — 

Their  honour  shared  in  death  ! 
Then  sympathy  had  wept  the  throne 
Divested  of  Napoleon. 


But  shame's  exchanged  for  pomp  and  state, 

A  prison  for  a  crown ; 
The  land  thou  thought's!  to  desolate 
Has  stood  the  tempest  of  thy  hate, 

And  dashed  thine  eagles  down ; 
And  France,  who  bore  her  head  so  high, 
Nurses  revenge  impotently. 


io6  NAPOLEON  III. 


Thy  splendour's  past :  in  solemn  calm 

Thou'lt  thrill  to  dream  the  hour 
When  vengeance,  in  each  peerless  arm, 
Assailed  thy  foemen  as  the  storm 

Resistless  in  its  power  : 
Now  Austria's  pale  host  shrinking  yields 
On  fair  Italia's  blood-bought  fields. 


Then  turn  to  Russia's  sanguine  walls ; 

Does  Glory  greet  thine  eye  ? 
With  Albion  gaze  where  Victory  calls, 
But  nought  thou'lt  see  in  ruined  halls 

Foreshadowing  Destiny, 
More  than  may  breathe  Ambition's  fate,- 
Stern  lesson  which  thou'st  learnt  too  late. 


Too  late  thou'st  learnt  that  men  are  things 

In  guilt  and  guile  arrayed, 
Who  kiss  the  feet  of  meanest  kings 
Whilst  power  unto  their  footsteps  clings. 

Twice  damned  who  thou  betrayed; 
If  busy  conscience  does  not  kill, 
Proud  France  may  have  her  vengeance  still. 


Shall  England's  gratitude  repose, 

Nor  wake  to  weep  thy  fall, 
And  view  the  triumph  of  thy  foes 
With  nought  of  Pity's  rending  throes, — 

When  truth  and  friendship  call 
Back  to  the  soul  those  deeds  of  fame 
On  which  our  mingling  blood  has  claim  ? 


Let  those  who  mock  thy  power  o'erthrown 

Remember  thou  hast  been 
The  Monarch  on  as  proud  a  Throne 
As  e'er  was  to  an  Empire  known, 

And  ruled  as  well,  I  ween  : 
Then  feel  no  feeble  brain  could  stem 
The  tide  to  such  a  diadem. 


NAPOLEON  ///.  107 


There  are  who  weep  thy  spouse  and  thee, 

And  mourn  your  glory  gone ; 
She's  worth  thine  immortality 
If  thou  wert  crowned  with  victory, 

And  still  possessed  thy  throne. 
Thy  friends  are  false,  but  she  has  proved 
'Twas  not  thy  power,  but  thee,  she  loved. 


Then  lean  thee  on  her  faithful  breast, 

And  hush  Ambition's  voice  ; 
Sweeter  shall  be  thy  pillowed  rest 
Than  when  the  beams  of  splendour  kissed 

The  objects  of  thy  choice, 
And  know  thyself,  whate'er  betide, 
The  husband  of  a  glorious  bride  ! 


SUnes  on  "{bearing  a  Sft^larfc  Sing  in 
februarp. 


|IKE  a  joy  which  has  burst  from  its  bonds  of  control, 
To  ravish  the  heart  and  to  gladden  the  soul, — 
Like  the  first  beam  of  hope  through  the  gloom  of 

despair, 

Or  a  smile  o'er  the  face  on  the  exit  of  care, — 
Like  a  sunbeam  which  peeps  through  the  bars  of  a  cell, 
On  the  bosoms  of  those  who  in  sorrow  may  dwell, — 
Like  the  first  tear  of  love  o'er  the  maiden's  bright  eye, 
On  the  fond  heart  of  him  for  whose  sake  she  would  die, — 
Like  the  voice  of  an  angel  which,  earthward  being  driven, 
Breathes  to  mortals  the  bliss  and  the  magic  of  heaven, — 
Like  the  first  glance  of  spring,  when  the  storm-king  has  fled, 
Giving  rapture  through  beauty  to  woodland  and  mead, — 
Like  a  hope  springing  out  from  the  woes  of  the  past, 
To  tell  the  sad  heart  of  a  blessing  at  last, — 
Like  all  that  is  joyous,  like  all  that  is  bright, 
Thy  song,  heav'nly  lark,  thrills  our  souls  with  delight ! 
A  lesson  thou  teachest — a  patience  revealest, 
And  through  the  dark  tempests  of  winter  thou  feelest 
There  is  something  of  gladness  and  pleasure  to  come : 
The  blue  sky  above  thee — beneath,  the  fair  bloom 
Of  the  pasture  and  meadow,  the  woodland  and  glade, 
By  the  hand  of  our  Maker  in  splendour  arrayed. 
So,  mortal,  though  winters  and  trials  may  come, 
O'er  their  bier  sunny  spring  pours  a  light  and  perfume ; 
And  when  life's  tears  and  sorrows  are  past,  we  are  given 
A  promise  of  glory  for  ever  in  Heaven  ! 


tbapptnees. 


"  Man  never  is  but  always  to  be  blest." — Pope. 


IRTUE'S  twin  sister,  lovely  spirit  thou  ! 

By  every  mortal  wooed,  by  few  obtained, — 
Fair  as  the  lily  laved  with  morning  dew ; 

When  Youth  and  all  its  charms  are  yet  retained, 
Thou  art  the  aim  and  end  of  life  !     And  how 
The  struggle  lingers,  and  the  eye  is  strained 
To  catch  one  glimpse,  or  rest  the  longing  gaze 
Upon  thy  hallowed  form,  to  ponder  all  thy  ways ! 


Yes  !  thou  like  maiden  coy,  with  eyes  of  blue, 
Since  hoary  Time  began  his  march  sublime, 

So  man  has  sought  thee  as  he  seeks  thee  now ! 
The  Poet  builds  to  thee  the  lofty  rhyme, 

The  Sage  with  calm  reflection  on  his  brow, 
Divines,  Philosophers  of  every  clime, 

Have  told  the  world  thy  dwelling  place,  yet  none, 

Or  few,  have  ever  clasped  thy  chaste  and  tempting  zone. 


HAPPINESS. 


Yea !  man  has  sought  thee  in  the  Dance,  the  Play, 
The  Chase,  the  Field,  where  Battle's  thunders  roar, 

And  deems  thou  art  in  Victory's  loud  hurra ; 

But  may  not  find  thee  there,  though  high  he  soar 

On  Triumph's  wings,  nor  in  the  lofty  lay 

The  Poet  twines  around  his  name  and  shore; 

Nor  where  inglorious  Patriots  bleed  and  die, 

For  thou  art  not  where  Pity  wipes  her  tearful  eye. 


And  others  seek  thee  on  the  breezy  mountain, 

Where  zephyrs  bathe  the  brow  and  calm  the  heart ; 

Or  quaff  the  mystic  music  of  the  fountain, 
Whose  lullabies  a  thousand  joys  impart ; 

Or  roam  the  twilight  dell,  their  pleasures  countin' 
In  thought  too  deep  for  words,  and  deem  thou  art 

A  moment  to  be  found  with  Nature  there, 

But  flee  as  worldly  dreams  their  wonted  power  declare. 


Homer,  Shakespeare,  Milton  saw  afar 

Thy  form  through  Glory  on  Parnassus'  height ; 

Napoleon  saw  thee  on  the  Conqueror's  car, 
Riding  with  Triumph  'midst  the  stormy  fight ; 

Newton  beheld  thee  in  each  radiant  star, 
Through  Immortality's  transcendent  light, 

In  Heavenly  visions,  but  at  distance  still, 

As  Poets  see  thee  far  upon  the  Muses'  hill ! 


The  love-lorn  maid,  in  Hymen's  silken  knot, 
Espied  thee  shining  loveliest  as  thou  wert ; 

But  Time  rolled  on,  and  there  she  found  thee  not, 
Except  in  Dreams,  and  Hope  forsook  her  heart, 

And  fled  the  precincts  of  her  humble  cot 

With  him  whom  Death  had  snatched  with  cruel  art ; 

Pale  Melancholy  seized  her  trembling  breast, 

And  laid  her  down  to  sleep  with  him  she  loved  the  best. 


HAPPINESS. 


O,  Happiness  !  thou  art  not  earthly  born, 
But  art  the  spirit  and  th^  l:ght  of  Heaven ; 

Though  transcient  rays  from  thy  bright  face  adorn 
At  times  our  dwell;ngs,  as  a  foretaste  given 

Of  that  eternal  Paradise,  where  morn 
For  ever  ling'ring  shines  on  those  forgiven, 

Who  wash'd  their  robes  in  the  bless'd  stream  which  flowed 

On  Calvary's  sacred  Mount  from  the  Incarnate  God  ! 


H  prater. 


GOD,  whose  all-supporting  skill 

The  weary  wanderer  guides  aright, 
Who  yields  obedient  to  Thy  will, 

And  prays  for  Faith's  clear-piercing  sight, 
Give  me  the  patience,  calm  serene, 

To  thwart  the  fiery  Tempter's  power, 
When  Hatred's  shafts  are  flying  keen, 
To  stand  unmoved  the  trying  hour. 


Teach  me,  my  Father,  to  subdue 

The  bursting  passions  as  they  roll, 
Like  wild  and  raging  tempests,  through 

My  agonized  and  yielding  soul. 
Give  me,  O  Heavenly  One  !  to  know 

That  Thou  my  only  Friend  canst  be, 
And  Satan  my  eternal  Foe, 

Whatever  form  he  wears  in  me. 


The  Jealousy,  the  Envious  thought, 

Ambition's  pitiable  pride, 
And  Anger,  Wisdom  never  sought, 

But  fain  for  e'er  would  seek  to  hide 
The  burning  passion  to  be  Great, 

Forgetful  of  my  fragile  form, 
The  nursing  of  an  inward  Hate 

'Gainst  those  who've  sought  my  earthly  harm. 


./    PRAYEK.  113 


Teach  me  to  soar  from  earthly  things 

To  purer  air  and  fairer  clime, 
On  Love  and  Hope's  aspiring  wings, 

And  know  alone  Thy  love  sublime. 
Give  me  a  foretaste  of  that  Home 

Which  yet  appears  as  mortal  dreams, 
That  I  from  Thee  no  more  may  roam, 

But  drink  my  fill  at  Heavenly  streams. 


And  leave  below  the  ruder  realm, 

The  meaner  thought,  the  tainting  sin, 
Where  furious  storms  no  more  o'erwhelm 

The  calm  my  bosom  holds  within  ; 
Where  I  may  hear  the  distant  thud 

Of  warring  Ocean's  boom  beneath, — 
Behold  the  dusky  cloudlets  scud 

Before  the  tameless  Tempest's  breath. 


As  soars  the  eagle  through  the  clouds 

When  lightnings  flash  and  thunders  roar, 
And  whirlwinds  tear  the  groaning  woods, 

And  crash  the  waves  along  the  shore, 
So  would  my  purer  spirit  rise 

Through  all  o'er  all  to  calms  afar, 
And  view  from  yonder  tranquil  skies 

The  wrathful  elements  at  war ! 


,  flfcar\>. 


]AY,  Mary,  why  that  gloom — 

That  soul  of  settled  sadness  ? 
Has  gay  Mirth  fled  her  home, 

Joined  by  her  sister — Gladness  ? 
And  left  thee  in  despair, 

With  none  to  love  and  bless  thee, 
And  chase  from  features  fair 

The  thoughts  which  so  distress  thee  ? 


I  know  he  has  not  been 

So  much  of  late  about  thee, 
And  oft  I've  marked  thy  mien 

Was  changed,  and  thy  bright  beauty 
Was  fading  ray  by  ray, 

Till  thou  wert  worn  with. sorrow, 
And  cheerless  seemed  thy  day, 

Nor  hope  breathed  better  morrow. 


The  streams,  whose  spirits  fling 

Their  soft  mysterious  voices 
O'er  groves  where  wild  birds  sing, 

And  every  heart  rejoices, 
Another's  gaze  may  woo, 

Another's  breast  make  cheery  : 
There's  nought  in  Nature  now 

Of  love  and  light  for  Mary. 


.SV/K,    J/.MT. 


The  flowers  have  ceased  their  smiles, 

The  towering  hills  their  grandeur  ; 
No  more  the  lark  beguiles 

Thy  willing  feet  to  wander ; 
The  moon  has  lost  her  charms, 

The  stars  their  peerless  brightness, 
The  meads  their  soothing  balms, 

Thy  gentle  heart  its  lightness. 


Thine  eyes,  where  love  and  light 

Had  made  their  kindred  dwelling, 
In  azure  glory  bright 

Of  slighted  love  are  telling  ; 
And  he  who  sought  thy  heart, 

And  won  it  through  his  feigning 
A  love  which  was  but  art, 

Mocks  thee  with  cold  disdaining. 


He  reads  thy  soul's  sad  lore, 

But  heeds  not  torn  love's  sighing, 
Nor  heals  the  wound  he  tore, 

And  laughs  to  see  thee  dying ; 
Exulting  in  thy  woes, 

Remorselessly  revealing 
A  fiendish  heart,  which  glows 

With  nought  of  human  feeling. 


Then  throw  him  from  thy  breast, 

As  a  leaf  by  the  tempest  driven, 
For  they  say  he  makes  a  jest 

Of  those  who  speak  of  heaven. 
And,  since  he's  false  to  thee, 

Thy  virtue  should  refuse  him, 
And  it  would  leave  thee  free 

To  dash  him  from  thv  bosom. 


u6  SAY,    MARY. 


Then  when  thy  vital  thread 

Is  snapped  by  Death's  cold  finger, 
Above  thy  mouldering  head 

Soft  Sympathy  shall  linger ; 
And  Virtue's  friends  shall  come 

Where  honoured  worth  reposes, 
And  strew  thy  silent  tomb 

With  daisies  meek  and  roses. 


How  different  is  his  lot, 

Whom  Constancy  has  slighted  t 
No  maiden  to  the  spot 

By  Truth  shall  be  invited ; 
For  who  would  weep  the  breast, 

Though  low  and  lonely  lying, 
That  blighted  woman's  rest, 

And  mocked  when  she  was  dying  ? 


to  tbe 


ING  to  the  earth,  O  heavenly  bird  ! 

Sing  to  a  thousand  'raptured  hearts ; 
Such  pathos  never  mortal  heard, 
Thy  song  imparts. 


Sing,  nor  in  vain,  thy  trembling  strain 
Flows  wildly  through  the  azure  dome, 

And  fills  with  joy  the  flowery  plain — 
Thy  fragrant  home. 


Oft  have  I  strained  a  boyish  eye 

When  loit'ring  by  the  shimmering  stream, 
To  see  thee  climb  the  inviting  sky 

In  morning's  beam ; 


Or  when  night's  herald,  sober  eve, 
With  crystal  dews  stole  o'er  the  plain, 

Of  burnished  day  thou  took'st  thy  leave 
With  seeming  pain. 


Still  dost  thou  lighten  o'er  my  breast, 
And  streak  the  gloom  that  lingers  there, 

As  lightning  flashes  o'er  the  west, 
By  midnight  drear. 


n8  STANZAS    TO    THE   SKYLARK. 


And  I  behold  thee  wandering  still, 
A  speck  beside  a  snowy  cloud, 

And  feel  my  soul  with  rapture  thrill, 
Strong,  sweet,  and  loud. 


In  thee  mankind  a  lore  may  learn, 
Unmingled  with  that  sophistry 

With  which  the  human  mind  will  burn 
To  gild  the  lie. 


Thou  tellest  how  weak  are  earthly  creeds, 
Where  subtle  minds  display  their  powers 

There's  more  that  man  obdurate  needs 
In  lovely  flowers. 


They  speak  without  the  power  of  speech, 
And  breathe  through  Beauty's  sunny  face 

An  eloquence  the  soul  to  reach, 
Without  grimace. 


So,  sweetest  bird,  the  lesson  taught, 
Though  lowly  born,  thou  canst  aspire 

To  realms  which,  like  the  earth,  thou'st  fraught 
With  Love's  soft  fire. 


O  thee,  sweet  unassuming  flower, 
Tis  given  beyond  the  Poet's  power 

To  thrill  the  Briton's  heart,— 
To  bid  within  his  bosom  rise 
A  thousand  patriot  ecstacies, 
With  tenderest  passions  fraught ! 


To  call  his  soul  to  some  fair  dell, 
Where  first  thou  on  his  fancy  fell ; 

Or  drew  his  willing  eyes, 
Whilst  lingering  by  some  brooklet's  braes, 
Where  fell  the  lav'rock's  melting  lays, 

Like  angels'  symphonies. 


Or  to  the  place  that  saw  his  birth, 
Where  thou  begemmed  the  emerald  earth, 

And  first  his  footsteps  roved  ; 
And  Nature,  in  her  fancy  dress, 
Revealed  to  him  her  power  to  bless, 

And  make  herself  beloved. 


120  STANZAS    TO    THE  DAISY. 


With  rapture  still  thy  charm's  control 
I'll  sing  as  painted  on  my  soul, 

From  Childhood's  earliest  hour ; — 
When  wandering  by  the  twisting  burn, 
O  !  there  e'en  yet  my  mind  will  turn, 

And  thrill  with  Memory's  power. 


So  turned  mine  eyes  from  other  shores, 
Where  towers  the  pine,  the  cat'ract  roars, 

And  mighty  lakes  expand 
Like  burnished  realms  of  dazzling  sheen, 
'Rose  in  my  breast  each  native  scene, 

O  much-lov'd  native  land  ! 


I  mused  on  hours  whose  happy  reign 
Knew  nought  of  sorrow  or  of  pain, 

When,  Daisy,  thou  wert  given 
A  lesson  (wide  in  influence,  too) 
To  teach,  when  thy  meek  eye  and  brow 

Were  firmly  fixed  on  Heaven. 


But  when  the  tempest  howls  on  high, 
And  Vengeance  shakes  the  sounding  sky, 

Thou  cover'st  up  thy  head ; 
And  whilst  the  ruthless  torrents  pour, 
Thou  meekly  bear'st  the  dreary  hour 

Stretched  on  thy  lowly  bed. 


But  fixed  as  purpose  not  in  vain, 
Thou  lift'st  thy  cinctured  brow  again, 

When  Sunshine  lights  the  sky, 
Brighter  than  thou  appeard'st  before, 
Again  thou  look'st  to  yonder  shore 

With  firm  unwavering  eye. 


STANZAS    TO    THE  DAISY. 


121 


So,  mortal,  when  the  storms  of  life 
Wage  o'er  thy  head  their  wonted  strife, 

Nor  shelter  thou  art  given, 
Bear  meekly  with  the  trying  hour ; 
And  when  the  tempests  lose  their  power, 

Through  Sunshine  look  to  Heaven  ! 


Xines  to  tbc  IDiolet. 


F  Beauty's  hues  were  sought  alone, 

Such  as  the  rainbow's  tints  disclose, 
Or  those  in  gayest  tulips  shone, 
Or  blush  in  every  virgin  rose, 
Or  such  as  shine  o'er  suns  just  set, 
In  thee  they  're  found  not,  Violet. 


But  seek  the  worth  that  Virtue  knows, — 
The  Modesty  which  lingers  here, — 

The  fragrance  of  the  dew-gemmed  rose, — 
The  charms  of  that  blue  eye,  whose  tear 

Tells  of  Love's  star,  which  ne'er  shall  set, — 
In  thee  they  're  found,  sweet  Violet. 


Cbatterton. 


FT  in  my  dreams  of  ruined  pride, 

By  Fortune  blighted  ere  its  bloom, 
Where  Genius  poured  her  lava  tide, 
And  lured  her  owner  to  the  tomb, 


O  !  Chatterton,  of  thee  I've  thought, 
And  wept  that  such  a  glorious  soul, 

With  hues  of  heavenly  splendour  fraught, 
Should  find  on  earth  so  dark  a  goal. 


Hard  Fortune  !  thou  who  sangst  so  sweet, 
Where  golden  Wealth  revealed  her  store, 

And  ne'er  a  kindred  spirit  met 
To  quaff  thine  all-immortal  lore, 


Should'st  die  by  that  same  brain  which  gave 
Its  "  Resignation "  to  mankind, 

And  plunge  in  darkness  to  a  grave, 

Yet  leave  such  streams  of  light  behind ; — 


1 24  CIIA  TTER  TON. 


Light !  beauteous  as  the  blushing  rays 
Which  hover  o'er  the  gilded  west, 

When  Sol  withdraws  his  dazzling  blaze, 
And  sinks,  as  poets  sing,  to  rest. 


The  soulless  things  !  they  knew  thee  not 
(Else  thou  had'st  lived  to  know  thy  fame) 

Who  broke  thy  heart ;  they'll  be  forgot, 
Or  live  but  in  the  voice  of  shame  ; 


Whilst  thou  on  starry  thought  shalt  soar 
The  heavens'  height — illumine  earth  ; 

And  men  with  pride  shall  claim  the  shore 
Which  ne'er  deserved,  but  gave  thee  birth. 


•And  sons  of  other  climes  shall  read 
Thy  glowing  page  as  Time  rolls  on, 

With  pity  for  the  Genius  dead, 
And  curse  the  foes  of  Chatterton  ! 


3n  fIDemoriam. 

.  Isabella  burner,  2>ieD  17tb  jfcbruarE,  IS8U 


HOU  art  missed  in  the  pew,  there's  a  vacant  chair, 
For,  alas  !  thou  sit'st  no  longer  there, 
And  tears  dim  many  a  burning  eye, 
Once  radiant  with  the  light  of  joy ; 

And  sorrow  dwells  in  many  a  heart, 

Where  love  and  hope  had  played  a  part 

'Mong  the  varying  passions  which  give  to  life 

A  zest  to  season  the  battle's  strife. 


There's  a  voice  that  is  hushed, 

And  a  heart  which  is  still, 
Where  pathos  gushed 

Like  a  flowing  rill ; 
There's  a  breast  that  heaves  not, 

A  pulse  at  rest, 
A  spirit  which  grieves  not 

At  woe's  request ; 
And  a  hand  reposed, 

By  Death  enthralled, 
Which  ne'er  was  closed 

When  Pity  called. 
There's  a  veil  that  is  drawn 

O'er  a  speaking  eye, 
Which  awaits  the  dawn 

Of  a  brighter  sky ; 
A  prayer  unsaid, 

Each  day  and  night, 
A  Bible  unread, 

And  a  Christian  light 
Fled  from  a  sphere 

Of  anxious  care, 
And  toil  and  tear, 

To  a  clime  more  fair. 


126         •  AY  MEMORIAM. 


For  thou  had'st  put  thy  trust  in  Him, 

The  Lord  of  Hosts— the  King  of  Heaven, 
Before  whose  face  all  lights  are  dim  ; 

Or  as  distant  rays  by  a  full  orb  given, 
Which  tremble  in  the  dew-drop  fair, 

Or  shimmer  on  the  streamlet's  face, 
And  beam  in  Nature's  beauties  rare, 

And  glow  on  the  brow  of  the  precipice  : 
So  thou  hast  quaffed  the  streaming  rays 

Of  mercy  from  their  Father  flowing, 
Which  lit  thee  through  earth's  darkest  ways, 

And  kept  a  Christian  bosom  glowing— 
(Celestial  lights  within  thee  burning, 

Whilst  looking  upwards  to  their  Giver, 
Like  stars,  the  vaults  of  heaven  adorning, 

Deep-mirrored  in  the  crystal  river) 
Reflected — they  reflect  again,    • 

And  were  not  given  to  thee  in  vain. 

And  though  thy  form's  no  longer  near 

The  region  of  thy  wonted  home, 
Oh  !  still  thou  art  remembered  dear 

By  friends  thou'st  left  below  to  roam  : 
And  some  would  fain  not  linger  here, 

But  share  the  coldness  of  thy  tomb, 
Could  they  thy  spirit's  raptures  know, 

Which  from  the  God  of  raptures  flow ! 

Thou  art  missed  in  the  pew,  there's  a  vacant  chair, 

For,  alas  !  thou  sit'st  no  longer  there, 

And  tears  dim  many  a  mourning  eye 

Once  radiant  with  the  light  of  joy. 

And  though  earth's  the  poorer  while  ages  roll, 

Heaven  is  the  richer  by  one  pure  soul ; 

And  our  loss  below  is  a  gain  above, 

In  the  central  home  of  Eternal  Love  ! 


Xines  on  the  2)eatb  of  a  lDer\>  Bear 
jfrienb. 

<5eo.  ©.  "fflijon,  DieO  December  I7tb,  1871. 


ND  shall  thy  bosom  turn  to  clay, 

And  not  one  breast  its  pangs  record? 
No  !  by  the  light  of  Virtue's  ray, 
Thou  shalt  not  pass  from  earth  away 
Unhonoured,  undeplored ! 


(My  lyre,  though  sad  thy  strain  must  be, 
Come  throw  thy  murmurs  o'er  the  gloom, — 

Pour  out  thy  burthen  full  and  free  : 

With  Pity  touch  his  memory 
Who  moulders  in  the  tomb). 


The  mystic  calm  that  wraps  thee  now 
Is  sweeter  than  our  tears  and  woes, — 

We  weep,  and  sorrow  clouds  our  brow. 

Alas  !  our  pangs  are  vain,  for  thou 
Know'st  nothing  save  repose  ! 


Within  our  breasts  thou  shalt  not  die, 

For  when  we  muse  on  truth  and  worth, 
Thou  shalt  be  first  to  meet  the  eye 
That  looks  through  cloudless  friendship's  sky- 
Thy  greatest  treasure,  earth. 


128  LINES  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  PKJEND. 


Thou  shalt  not  die  !     Immortal  Grief 

Shall  call  thee  from  the  hallowed  dust ; 
Nor"  give  through  time  the  wished  relief, 
E'en  for  a  minute — (space  so  brief) — 
To  heal  the  hearts  which  burst. 


Enough  !  since  vain  all  sorrows  prove, 
In  radiant  Hope  we'll  seek  relief, — 
Look  to  the  central  home  of  Love, 
Where  Purity  is  wont  to  rove, 
And  nought  is  known  of  Grief. 


The  light  we  quaff  at  every  gaze 

Shall  banish  anguish  from  our  souls,- 
Illumine  with  its  heavenly  rays 
The  depths  of  Sorrow's  dwelling  place, 
And  seal  the  tear  that  rolls. 


And  when  some  vision  of  thy  bliss, 

Like  spirit-music  sweeps  our  breast, 
We'll  turn  to  yon  bright  realm  from  this, 
And  drink  thy  joys,  as  moonbeams  kiss 
The  wavelet  hushed  to  rest ! 


IReflectione. 


JHE  year  is  nearly  worn  out,  John, 
A  wasted  time  to  many  an  one, 
A  dreary  void  in  chances  given 
For  shunning  Hell  and  gaining  Heaven. 
Another  link  to  the  sinner's  chain, — 
Some  ten  or  a  dozen  may  yet  remain 
To  be  forged  and  worn  by  the  thoughtless  slave, 
As  he  rattles  along  to  an  early  grave. 
The  path  is  beaten  with  foot-prints  o'er, 
For  millions,  alas  !  have  passed  before 
To  the  ocean  that  rolls  without  a  shore. 


The  wise  of  all  the  ages  past 
Have  a  warning  voice  on  the  breezes  cast, 
In  the  solemn  truths  of  immortal  lore 
Which  point  to  the  ocean  without  a  shore  : 
But  what  is  the  lore  of  the  wise  to  you, 
My  weary  friend  with  the  haggard  brow  ? 
You  have  lived  your  time  in  passion  and  pain, 
And  the  joys,  O  !  the  joys,  do  they  yet  remain 
Like  the  scattered  flowers  by  the  reapers  spared, 
In  the  parching  stubble  or  emerald  sward, 
To  be  gathered  and  garnered  in  time  to  come, 
\Vhen  your  better  angel  has  ceased  to  roam, 
And  made  your  nobler  heart  her  home. 


REFLECTIONS. 


You  tell  me  Bereavement  has  left  a  smart 

Which  rankles  and  gnaws  in  your  troubled  heart,— 

That  Sorrow  shall  dwell  for  ever  there 

The  boon  companion  of  Despair, — 

That  you  are  weary,  and  fain  would  rest 

By  the  ashes  of  her  you  lov'd  the  best, 

And  trust  for  a  Future  beyond  the  grave 

To  the  turn  of  Chance  or  a  favouring  wave, — 

That  your  life,  a  dreary  and  wasted  hour, 

Is  flitting  away  'mid  the  clouds  that  lower, — 

That  God,  though  in  anger,  your  case  shall  weigh- 

Your  trials — temptations  by  night  and  day, 

And  brush  your  crimes  from  His  page  away. 

O,  desolate  scene  !  those  wasted  hours 
Behind  you  cast  like  withered  flowers  ! 
And  you  are  trav'ling  a  reeling  swamp, 
With  "  Will-o'-the-Wisp  "  for  your  only  lamp, 
With  his  flitful  twinkle  and  feeble  gleam, 
Like  the  fire-fly's  dance  o'er  an  inky  stream, — 
Fit  emblems  of  dying  hopes,  which  fade 
As  frost-nip't  flowers  in  an  autumn  glade, 
Like  a  vision  which  told  of  a  happier  time, 
When  the  heart,  the  heart  was  free  from  crime, 
And  Virtue  rose  in  the  soul  sublime  ! 

O  !  dreary  "wand'rer  of  mazes  lost," 

Compassless  mariner  tempest  tossed, 

A  turbulent  ocean  heaving  round, 

Each  tow'ring  wave  with  a  foam-wreath  crowned  ! 

There  is  One  can  still  this  raging  sea, 

Who  hush'd  the  billows  of  Galilee, 

And  is  waiting  with  open  arms  to  save 

Your  helpless  form  from  the  hungry  wave  ; 

Then  fly  and  lay  your  soul  of  grief 

On  His  pitying  breast  and  find  relief : 

Ask  Him  in  faith  for  the  glorious  prize, 

The  life  which  lives  when  the  body  dies, 

Beyond  the  mountains — beyond  the  skies  ! 


Stra\>e&  from  tbc  Ibaunts.* 


T.RAYED   from  the  haunts  of  the  neighbouring 

poor, 

A  child  was  at  play  on  the  sea-washed  shore, 
Joyous  and  merry,  where  few  intrude, 
Wrapped  in  her  seeming  solitude  ; 
Charmed  by  the  weird  voice  of  the  waves, 
Listening  the  echoes  within  the  caves ; 


*  Mrs.  Lucas,  of  Sunderland,  in  an  excellent  and  chaste  address  on 
Gospel  Temperance,  delivered  in  the  Town  Hall,  Shotley  Bridge,  in 
September,  1882,  described,  in  her  beautiful  manner,  an  incident  which 
occurred  one  bright  morning  in  the  month  of  June,  when,  at  an  early 
hour,  she  sauntered  forth  by  the  sea-shore,  musing  on  the  great  question 
which  had  taken  such  a  hold  upon  her  gentle  and  generous  nature. 
Far  away  along  the  shore,  some  distance  from  any  human  dwelling, 
she  came  upon  a  little  girl  at  play,  moulding  the  sand  into  various  fan- 
tastic shapes,  barefoot  and  hatless,  her  sunny  hair  fluttering  in  the  balmy 
summer  breezes.  To  the  right  of  her  stretched  the  massive,  towering 
rocks,  which  had  breasted  the  billows  for  ages :  to  the  left,  the  mighty 
ocean.  The  thought  which  awed  her  spirit  on  the  bright  morning  of 
that  memorable  day  was — when  these  rocks  are  crumbled  into  dust,  and 
the  ocean  has  ceased  its  throbbing  for  'ever,  the  soul  of  this  little  child 
will  be  living  somewhere  in  God's  great  world.  It  is  needless  to  say 
that  this  touching  and  beautiful  incident  formed  the  text  for  the  abou- 
poem. 


132  STRAYED  FROM  THE  HAUNTS. 


Watching  the  sea-birds'  circling  flight 
O'er  the  dancing  waves  in  the  summer  light ; 
Or  some  gallant  ship  on  the  ocean  by, 
Walking  the  waters  in  majesty — 
Living,  dear  child,  in  the  morn  of  life, 
A  rapturous  hour  before  the  strife 
Break  like  a  tempest,  ere  noon  is  high, 
To  veil  the  glory  that  lights  her  sky. 


A  lady,  strolling  the  beach,  beholds 
The  laughing  child,  as  her  scheme  unfolds, 
Shaping  the  sand  to  her  fancy  there, — 
Building  her  castles  in  the  air, — 
And  read,  with  eyes  that  Love  had  taught, 
The  lesson  with  which  the  scene  was  fraught ; 
And  seeing  the  truth  was  realized, 
Thus  to  her  soul  she  soliloquised  : — 
"  Child  at  play,  in  the  early  morn, 
Fragile  and  fair  as  the  hues  of  dawn  ; 
Pure  as  the  balm  of  the  summer  rose,        , 
Giving  its  life  to  each  breeze  that  blows ; 
Yet  when  the  mountains  to  air  have  passed, 
And  the  sea  's  consumed  .in  the  fiery  blast, — 
When  earth's  foundations  dissolve  and  fall, 
And  Chaos  and  Ruin  are  over  all, — 
When  sun  and  moon  and  stars  have  fled 
Their  spheres  of  light,  and  are  with  the  dead, — 
O  !  fragile  child,  before  me  at  play, 
Thy  soul  shall  succumb  not  to  dread  decay, 
But  live  beyond  the  bounds  of  Time, 
'Mid  brighter  worlds,  in  a  fairer  clime, — 
In  light  by  God's  own  presence  given, 
And  all  the  majesty  of  Heaven, — 
Or  where  the  unrepenting  dwell, 
In  the  constant  pain  of  a  torturing  Hell. 


"  I  go  my  way,  and,  as  I  go, 
May  deem  thy  soul  has  many  a  foe ; 
And  pray  our  God  thy  steps  may  guide 
•In  Virtue's  flowery  paths  of  pride, 
Religion's  higher  walks  ascending, 


STRAYED  FROM  THE  HAUNTS.  133 


Her  grace  and  love  with  duty  blending ; 

'  '1  hat  when  the  reaping  time  is  come, 

And  Angels  shout  the  harvest  home,' 

1'hou  may'st  be  found  when  the  sheaves  unfold 

Their  treasures,  far  richer  than  gems  or  gold. 

And  as  the  spangled  dews  adorn 

The  rose-heaves  in  refulgent  morn, 

So  may  thy  deeds  to  Virtue  sealed, 

Their  fragrance  sweet  and  radiance  yield, 

Throwing  their  tender  light  afar, 

Like  glances  from  the  morning  star ; 

For  all  the  wealth  in  the  world's  control 

Is  not  worth  the  price  of  thy  deathless  soul." 


passion's  power. 


He  who  the  Passion's  Power  hath  proved, 
Felt  its  alternate  joy  and  pain, 

He  who  hath  well  and  wildly  loved, 
Will  love  again." 


ERHAPS  the  youth  whose  ardent  flame, 
Dropp'd  this  warm  verse  as  heaven  the  dew, 

Linked  to  some  soft  enraptur'ng  name, 
Experience  knew. 


Perchance  the  form  he  most  adored, 
(Which  for  his  own  he  fondly  sighed), 

Ere  all  its  sweetness  was  explored, 
Had  droop'd  and  died ; 

And  left  the  memory  of  its  joy 
Untouched,  unsullied  by  despair, 

Mingled  of  sorrow  with  the  boy, 
To  flourish  there. 

That  memory,-  too,  he  fondly  cherished, 
And  fearful  lest  the  passion  fade, 

He  woo'd  and  won,  ere  it  had  perished, 
Some  other  maid. 

But  had  he  loved  some  faithless  fair, 
Who  laughed  at  all  his  bosom  bore, 

His  heart  had  languished  in  despair, 
And  loved  no  more. 


3n  flDemonam. 

3obn  m.  /ffimir,  DieO  in  flMetermaritsberg,  Soutb  afrfca, 
©ctober  30tb,  ISS2. 


|EARS  flow,  the  heart  is  pained  for  thee, 

For  Sorrow  sits  in  silence  there  ; 
Pale  Pity  bears  her  company, 

And  shares  the  moment  with  Despair, 
For  thou  in  Faith  and  Love  wert  fair 
As  planets  to  the  Shepherd's  gaze  : 
Death  tells  that  thou  wert  ever  dear, 
And  wakes  the  voice  of  honest  praise. 

How  weak  alike  are  Tears  and  Song, 

How  vain  the  philosophic  thought 
To  quench  the  grief — warm,  gushing,  strong, 

That  thrills  Bereavement's  tender  heart ! 
For  thou  wert  not  from  us  apart, 

Though  distant  far  'neath  other  skies, 
But  being  of  our  being  fraught, 

With  all  our  loves  and  sympathies. 

And  Mem'ry  shall  her  charms  retain — 

On  converse  past  her  powers  attest ; 
As  in  some  corner  of  the  brain 

With  dear  delusive  visions  blessed, 
Where  oft  the  mental  eye  may  rest, 

And  live  departed  moments  o'er, 
So  shall  Reflection's  eye  invest 

Thy  name  with  pleasures  known  before. 


136  Iff  MEMOR1AM. 


Sleep  on  within  thy  quiet  tomb, 

Where,  nurslings  of  another  sky, 
Fair  flowers,  unknown  to  me,  may  bloom 

To  lure  and  charm  th'  enchanted  eye, 
And  bright  rills  sing  their  lullaby,  . 

And  birds  their  lays  to  lis/ning  ears  ; 
But  thine  in  silence  steeped  shall  lie 

Unconscious  of  the  rolling  years. 

Thou  thought'dst  to  sleep  in  English  earth, 

For  thou  wert  born  and  nurtured  here, 
Where  men  who  knew  and  prized  thy  worth 

Could  pause,  and  drop  the  gen'rous  tear ; 
And  genial  May  might  scatter  there 

The  daisy  with  its  cinctured  brow, 
Flower  ever  to  thy  bosom  dear, 

Which  may  not  bloom  above  thee  now. 

Nor  may  thy  favourite  skylark  pour 

Celestial  music  o'er  the  sod, 
Whence  from  the  clay  thy  spirit  pure 

Passed  eagle-like  to  meet  her  God  : 
To  see  created  joys  abroad, 

And  know  the  glories  Heaven  can  give, 
And  tread  where  Christ  Himself  hath  trod, 

There  through  Eternity  to  live. 

Away,  then,  with  our  Tears  and  Woe, 

Tis  but  a  change  that  we  call  death ; 
Nor  bid  the  wells  of  Sorrow  flow, 

Which  live  but  where  the  clay  has  breath ; 
Thou  art  not  dead  to  eyes  of  Faith, 

But  dwell'st  upon  a  fairer  shore  ; — 
"  We'll  meet,"  Hope's  vital  promise  saith, 

To  mingle  there  for  evermore. 


3n  flDemoriam. 

flfcarh  mall,  DfeD  October  8tb,  tS7t. 


jjIKE  the  last  ray  of  Hope  that  embellished  thy 

pillow, 
And,  flitting  here,  flattered  the  friends   of  thy 

heart, 
Like  the  sunbeam  that  brightens  the  brow  of  the  billow, 

Ere  tempests  their  death-dealing  vengeance  impart, 
Thou,  my  friend,  hast  departed  :  nor  sunshine  to-morrow 

Shall  traverse  the  gloom  which  encircles  the  soul 
Of  those  who  may  dream,  in  their  silence  and  sorrow, 
Thy  virtues,  which  point  to  a  glorious  goal. 

Not  in  vain  hast  thou  lived,  nor  in  vain  hast  thou  perished, 

For  kindness  and  goodness  exist  not  in  vain  : 
'Tis  these  that  will  make  thee  eternally  cherished, 

And  speak  to  our  bosoms  again  and  again. 
As  the  spirits  of  Dreamland  preside  o'er  our  slumbers, 

And  call  up  the  joys  and  the  woes  of  the  past, 
So  thy  voice,  though  no  more,  shall  awaken  the  numbers 

And  echo  its  tones  when  I  listened  it  last. 

Yet  Pity  thy  name  shall  environ  with  sadness, 

Which  Time  may  reduce,  but  can  never  destroy ; 
While  Memory  will  call  back  the  light  of  thy  gladness, 

The  warm  gushing  passion  which  ravished  the  boy. 
Farewell !  though  there's  nothing  so  selfish  as  Sorrow, 

And  sweet  the  repose  of  thy  spirit  may  be, 
We'll  envy  thee  not,  but  reflectingly  borrow 

The  beam  of  thy  bliss,  and  enjoy  it  with  thee ! 


on  tbe  jJranaxSerman 


'M  gloomy  wi'  the  thought  o't,  Jean, 

I'm  wae  for  a'  the  dead, 
For  mony  a  battle-field  I've  seen, 

Where  hissed  the  awfu'  lead  ; 
But  never  ken'd  a  war  like  this 
For  nickin'  life's  frail  thread. 


I  hae  stood  for  my  native  land,  Jean, 
Where  poured  the  iron  hail, 

And  hae  heard  on  every  hand,  Jean, 
My  comrades  dying  wail, 

And  hae  wept  the  cost  o'  victory, 
Wi'  cheeks  sae  cauld  and  pale. 


Though  o'  British  valour  proud,  Jean, 
And  vain  o'  my  Scottish  birth, 

For  there  never  were  men  as  good,  Jean, 
To  battle  e'er  went  forth, 

Yet  I  look  on  war  as  a  curse  frae  God 
To  punish  this  wicked  earth. 


(For  our  minister  oft  has  said,  Jean, 
That  the  curse  and  wrath  o'  God 

Are  administered  through  the  aid,  Jean, 
O'  sinners  who  wield  His  rod  ; 

And  mark,  the  medium  o'  his  ire 
He  never  makes  the  good.) 


THE  FRANCO-GERMAN  WAR.  139 


Such  passion  is  pride  o'  heart,  Jean, — 
And  promises  nought  but  strife, — 

It  is  aimed  like  the  murderer's  dart,  Jean, 
At  the  fountain  o'  mony  a  life: 

In  its  dried-up  channels  o'  anguish  die 
The  succourless  child  and  wife. 


The  widow  and  orphan's  sorrow,  Jean, 
Is  so  vast  to  my  frenzied  brain, 

And  grows  wi'  each  dawning  morrow,  Jean, 
The  gory  piles  o'  slain, 

Till  they  seem  to  mock  at  our  sympathy 
As  a  worthless  thing  and  vain. 


It  seems  as  though  the  earth  and  sky 

Were  reeling  a'  wi'  hate, 
And  Vengeance,  wi'  his  crimson  eye, 

Was  monarch  over  fate, 
And  viewed  the  carnage  mountains 

Wi'  fiendish  joy  elate. 


And  darker  gather  the  clouds,  Jean, 
Ower  what  was  sunny  France  ; 

Like  the  sough  o'  the  winter  woods,  Jean, 
The  conquering  hosts  advance ; 

And  the  world  awaits  the  shock  as  though 
'Twere  smittem  wi'  a  trance. 


Yet  nane  raise  the  arm  o'  defence,  Jean, 

To  stay  the  fatal  hand 
That  hangs  like  a  pestilence,  Jean, 

Above  the  noble  band, 
Wha  can  calmly  face  the  pangs  o'  death 

But  shame  can  no  withstand. 


140  THE  FRANCO-GERMAN  WAR. 


Has  England  her  prestige  lost,  Jean  ? 

Do  her  mighty  minds  of  yore, 
(O'  which  men  are  wont  to  boast,  Jean) 

No  longer  rule  her  shore  ? 
Is  her  clarion  voice  for  ever  dead — 

Shall  it  speak  to  the  world  no  more? 

The  nations  are  waiting  her  word,  Jean, 
And  would  harken  her  counsel  still, 

Foi  Rapine,  that  gory  lord,  Jean, 
O'  slaughter  has  had  his  fill : 

Then  O  !  would  England  speak  aloud 
And  the  armies  would  cease  to  kill. 


For  I'm  gloomy  wi'  the  thought  o't,  Jean, 

I'm  wae  for  a'  the  dead, 
For  mony  a  battle  field  I've  seen, 

Where  hissed  the  awfu'  lead, 
But  never  ken'd  a  war  like  this 

For  nickin'  life's  frail  thread. 


on  tfoe  Bcatb  of  a 


SWEET  be  thy  slumbers,  and  hallowed  thy 

rest, 
Where  the  wings  of  thy  spirit  hath  borne 

thee, — 
Where  lifeb-lighting  tempests  may  ne'er  touch  thy 

breast, 
Nor  soil  the  pure  robes  which  adorn  thee. 


Thou  art  gone,  like  the  pleiad  that  'erst  decked  the 
sky, 

From  the  clasp  of  the  arms  which  have  bound  thee, 
But  the  faith  and  the  hope  that  we'll  see  thee  on  high, 

Throw  their  soul-soothing  influence  around  thee. 


Like  the  rose  which  this  morning  embellished  the 
thorn, 

The  flower  of  thy  cheek  was  in  blossom, 
Till  Death's  chilling  frost  had  relentlessly  torn 

And  damped  all  the  fires  of  thy  bosom. 


And  now  thou  art  laid  in  the  deep  silent  grave, 
Where  those  love-bright  and  eloquent  eyes, 

Like  stars  shall  arise  to  illumine  thy  cave, 
Or  light  up  thy  path  to  the  skies. 


STANZAS  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  CHILD. 


There  unfettered  and  free  as  a  sunbeam  thou'lt  rove, 
Where  no  shadow  of  sorrow  can  stray, 

'Neath  the  soft  beaming  glance  of  the  Father  of  Love, 
And  the  splendour  of  limitless  day. 

Then  weep  not,  bereaved  one,  Oh  !  weep  not,  'tis  vain 
All  the  heartrending  throes  of  thy  breast ; 

Thy  child  is  exulting  from  sorrow  and  pain, 
"  'Twould  be  sinful  to  weep  for  the  blest." 


H  Brifcai 


HAPPY,  happy,  may  you  be, 
Dear  Lady  o'  our  bonnie  vale  ; 

And  happy,  happy,  too,  be  he 

Wha  tauld  you  love's  enchanting  tale  ! 


Though  he  has  stown  our  fragrant  flower, 
Which  grew  by  Derwent's  sunny  braes, 

To  shed  perfume  in  Scottish  bower, 
And  happiness  breathe  ower  his  days. 

The  widows  miss  your  liberal  hand, 
The  orphans  want  your  kindly  smile  ; 

But  far  in  your  romantic  land, 
You  aye  shall  ithers  cares  beguile. 

Yes,  many  bless  your  open  hand, 

And  ower  you're  leaving  shed  the  tear — 

The  tender  tear — you'll  aye  command 
Frae  eyes  that  hold  fair  Virtue  dear. 

The  vi'let,  in  its  early  birth, 

Smiles  sweet  through  its  delightful  blue; 
So  shines  the  pride  o'  modest  worth, 

Which  finds  a  cherished  home  in  you. 

*  "The  marriage  of  the  Rev.  W.  Wood,  of  Campsie,  Stirlingshire, 
with  Miss  Annie  Gilespie,  eldest  daughter  of  James  Annandale,  Esq., 
of  Shotley  Grove,  was  celebrated  amid  great  rejoicings,  at  Shotley 
Bridge,  last  week." — Newspaper  paragraph,  May,  1872. 


144  -A  BRIDAL   WISH. 


Oft  hae  I  passed  you  by  the  way, 
An  hundred  times  at  least,  I  vow; 

You  little  kent  the  thought  I'd  hae, 
When  aiblins  I  fogot  to  bow. 

I  thought  (but  something  almost  says 

"  You  should  na  breathe  what  you  desire") 

That  in  the  aspect  o'  your  face 
I  trace  the  spirit  o'  your  sire. 

Your  honoured  sire  !  (I  speak  it  plain, 
For  truth  has  aye  the  strongest  part) 

Too  noble  to  be  proud  or  vain, 

And  rich  in  his  great  generous  heart. 

It  is  enough  o'  worldly  praise 

To  say  you're  his,  and  emulate 
His  bounteous  hand  and  kindly  ways 

To  those  who're  born  to  poor  estate. 

So,  Lady,  may  the  winged  hours 

Waft  blessings  ower  your  worthy  breast ; 

And  happiness  with  you  and  yours 

Reign  in  your  home — a  welcome  guest. 

Then  merry,  merry,  may  you  be, 
Afar  from  this — our  bonnie  vale  ; 

And  merry,  merry,  too,  be  he 

Wha  tauld  you  love's  enchanting  tale. 


fHOUGH  summer  has  fled,  and  rude  winter 

is  here, 

Away  with  the  gloom  of  dejection, 
'Tis  folly  to  murmur  and  shed  the  salt  tear, 
Though  thy  past  has  no  charms  for  reflection. 
If  the  thorns  of  thy  path  have  outnumbered  the  rose, 

And  joy  has  been  quenched  by  thy  sorrow, 
Awaken  thy  hopes  from  their  depth  of  repose, 
And  bliss  may  enchant  thee  to-morrow. 

Though  lonely  thy  lot,  since  the  soul  of  thy  love 

Hath  ceased  to  be  troubled  for  ever, 
Her  spirit  doth  rove  in  the  realms  above 

No  more  from  the  blessed  to  sever ; 
And  there  is  a  joyance,  felicity  rare, 

With  legends  of  happy  before  her, 
She's  awaiting  thee  now,  so  away  with  despair, 

Thou — immortal — mayst  join  her  to-morrow. 

If  dark  disappointment  steal  over  thy  breast, 

And  Fortune  rewards  not  thy  labour, 
While  Honesty's  crushed  in  thy  bosom  distressed, 

And  wealth  crown  the  hope  of  thy  neighbour, 
Frown  not  on  the  blessings  another  may  have, 

But  brush  from  thy  brow  every  furrow  : 
Base  envy  belongs  not  to  hearts 'that  are  brave, 

Be  hopeful,  and  triumph  to-morrow ! 


146  TO-MOKROll'. 


The  brave  and  the  good  have  a  battle  to  fight, 

For  sin  howls  his  curses  around  us, 
And  though  short  is  the  triumph    of  Wrong   over 
Right, 

The  odds  are  inclined  to  confound  us ; 
But  who  dies  in  a  battle  for  Freedom,  I  wot, 

His  memory  ne'er  wants  an  adorer, 
His  past  and  his  present,  they  are  not  forgot, 

And  victory  shall  crown  him  to-morrow  ! 


'Tis  not  the  possession  of  silver  or  gold 

That  makes  us  the  better  or. wiser ; 
No  mortal's  so  wretched  as  him  who  grows  old 

In  worshipping  Mammon — the  miser  : 
He  lives  for  himself,  but  he  trembles  to  die, 

For  death  to  his  breast  bears  a  horror ; 
He  dare  not  ask  God  for  a  mansion  on  high, 

For  he'd  trusted  Him  not  for  to-morrow  ! 


Contentment  be  thine,  then,  nor  envy  nor  hate 

Allow  to  unsettle  or  grieve  thee ; 
To  bear,  it  is  said,  is  to  conquer  our  Fate — 

Philosophic  and  true  this,  believe  me. 
If  poverty  render  too  scanty  thy  board, 

And  strength  pale  a  little  before  her, 
Know  anguish  oft  gnaweth  at  Luxury's  Lord, 

And  thou  shalt  be  painless  to-morrow ! 


Though  tyrants  assail  thee,  fools  laugh  at  thy  lot, 

True  worth  hath  a  pride  worth  possessing, 
And  despot  and  fool  shall  alike  be  forgot, 

While  thy  name  shall  be  breathed  in  a  blessing. 
I  speak  not  in  scorn  of  the  wealthy  and  high, 

Some  are  noble  in  joy  as  in  sorrow  ; 
And  if  clouds  of  to-day  dim  the  light  of  their  sky, 

May  it  shine  in  full  splendour  to-morrow  ! 


147 


I  know  (as  thou  know'st)  those  of  honour  and  worth, 

Whose  talents  and  virtues  adorn  them, 
And  though  Fortune  and  Nature  have  smiled  on  their 
birth, 

The  poor  on  their  exit  shall  mourn  them. 
To  emulate  such  be  the  aim  of  thy  soul, — 

A  tithe  of  their  wisdom  to  borrow, 
Shall  lead  to  the  glory  that  shines  in  their  goal, 

And  it  may  be  forthcoming  to-morrow  ! 

To  spend  the  last  portion  where  pity  may  call, 

To  soothe  in  the  moments  of  sadness, 
To  raise  from  the  earth  if  thou  canst  those  who  fall, 

And  tell  them  that  virtue  is  gladness : 
To  succour  the  orphan — the  widow  to  cheer, 

When  bereavement  a  gloom  has  cast  o'er, 
Might  be  deemed  by  the  selfish  a  folly,  I  fear, 

But  Fortune  may  shun  the'm  to-morrow  ! 

The  children  of  Virtue  have  little  to  fear, 

Secure  in  the  calm  of  their  bosom  : 
The  flowers  of  such  soil  to  humanity  dear, 

Shall  give  joy  to  the  world  in  their  blossom. 
God  save  thee  from  Vice,  whose  enchantments  for 
youth 

Lead  thousands,  I  ween,  to  adore  her ; 
So  be  pure,  firm  and  noble,  embracing  the  truth, 

And  look  forward  with  faith  for  to-morrow ! 


H  prologue,' 


RIENDS,  patrons  of  our  cause,  when  we  shall 

tune 

Our  gushing  voices  to  recite  or  sing, 
Let's  trust,  like  warblers  of  the  grove  in  June, 
Whose  trembling  pipes  their  soothing  pathos  fling, 
Lend  us  your  ears,  we  shall  return  them  soon 

Uninjured,  save  their  drums  may  jar  and  ring, 
And  if  we  please  you  and  excite  your  laughter, 
We  shall  have  gained  the  object  we  are  after. 


There  are  who  think  to  laugh  is  very  wrong, 
And  walk  the  earth  with  faces  grave  and  blue, 

Drawn  out  by  mimic  sadness,  till  as  long 
As  any  washing-day  you  ever  knew  ; 

Who  treat  a  mirthful  wight  with  language  strong 
As  Durham  mustard,  and  as  biting  too, 

And  look  upon  our  Dickens',  Lovers',  Sternes', 

As  wicked  men,  who  should  be  hung  by  turns. 


For  why  ?  Because  they've  urged  the  world,  no  doubt, 
Grow  merry  and  rejoice 'neath  loads  of  Care, 

And  made  the  wheels  of  life  pursue  their  route, 
Which  might  have  clogged  with  sorrow  and  despair. 

Yet  there  was  centred  in  their  souls,  not  mute, 
The  spirit  of  religion  pure  and  fair ; 

The  wretched  seldom  asked  their  aid  in  vain, 

For  fun  can  melt  beneath  a  tale  of  pain. 

*  The  above  prologue  was  delivered   at  Castle«He,   in   1870,   at  an 
entertainment  in  aid  of  the  fund  for  repairing  the  Day  School  there. 


A  PROLOGUE.  149 


Deem  not  because  the  words  of  lightness  fly 
From  joy-o'erburthened  lips  to  ravished  ears, 

That  seriousness  awakes  no  fear-born  sigh, 
Or  that  such  heart  no  sacred  theme  reveres. 

Tis  said  "  the  springs  of  rosy  laughter  lie  " 
In  "  close  connection  with  the  well  of  tears." 

Just  now  we'll  take  the  laughter,  and  await 

The  well  of  tears,  which  never  comes  too  late. 


HDusic* 


MIGHT  have  sung  how  Jubal,  Lamech's  son, 
The  tuneful  art  in  earliest  times  begun, 
Ere  yet  the  awful  deluge  made  the  world 
A  watery  sepulchre,  to  ruin  hurled  : 
How  in  the  anvil's  rhythmic  ring  he  found, 
'Tis  said,  inspiring  music's  magic  sound, 
From  whence  the  sweet-tongued  lyre  created  came 
To  cheer  his  soul — immortalize  his  name. 

Or  how  the  leisure-loving  shepherd  heard 

The  whistling  grasses  by  the  tempest  stirred  ; 

And  eke  he  gathered  from  the  wild  bird's  song, 

The  imitative  thought,  and,  ere  'twas  long, 

Gave  to  the  world  his  pipe,  which,  played  wirh  skill, 

Tells  of  Arcadian  groves  and  pleasure  still. 

Or  how,  when  Pharoah's  legions  found  a  grave 
Beneath  the  surging  of  the  ocean  wave, 
Smitten  of  God,  beneath  His  frown  they  sleep, 
Fair  Miriam's  voice,  swift-winged,  flew  o'er  the  deep, 
Blended  with  timbrel  tones,  which  ever  tell 
How  Israel  triumphed,  and  how  Egypt  fell. 

Or  how,  when  Salem  in  her  glory  rose, 
Without  a  rival  'mong  her  powerful  foes, 
When  all  the  hills  and  plains  our  Saviour  trod 
Were  bathed  in  fragrance  'neath  the  smile  of  God, 
The  tuneful  David's  harp  poured  forth  his  soul, 
And,  like  his  psalms,  which  down  the  ages  roll, 
Sweeping  and  thrilling  through  the  nerves  of  men, 
Sought  to  subdue  the  heart,  nor  sought  in  vain : 
In  David  Hebrew  song  its  zenith  found, 
Which  stands,  like  heaven's  decrees,  eternal  and  pro- 
found. 

These  stanzas,  in  which  the  origin  of  music  is  traced,  were  recited 
by  the  author  on  the  occasion  of  a  musical  festival  at  Shotley  Bridge. 


.urs/c.  151 


I  might  have  sung,  but  Time  will  stay  for  no  man, 
On  music  of  the  Egyptian,  Greek,  and  Roman ; 
How  Orpheus  from  that  awrful  region,  where 
The  wicked  writhe  in  darkness  and  despair, 
Brought  back  his  spouse  by  music's  matchless  power, 
The  lute  his  instrument — and  fame  his  dower. 

But  when  I've  sung,  as  verily  I  might, 

If  Time  were  flying  not  on  pinions  light, 

Of  Rolla's  fire,  and  Paginini's  art, 

Which  teamed  such  rapture  o'er  the  trembling  heart 

Of  Handel,  Mendelssohn,  and  Mozart's  right, 

To  invest  the  pealing  organ  with  delight, 

And  send  their  names  on  Fame's  proud  wings  afar, 

To  light  the  sphere  of  music  like  a  star. 

When  all  the  instruments  by  man  designed, 
Are  present  with  their  varied  strains,  my  mind, 
Were  it  to  choose,  I'm  pretty  sure  its  choice 
Would  fall  upon  the  liquid  human  voice  : 
So  deep  its  pathos,  and  so  sweet  its  tone, 
A  heaven-born  instrument — it  stands  alone, 
And  here  we  have't  in  plenty  to  dispense 
The  sweetest  sounds,  and  shall  at  once  commence. 


Sitting  Hlone. 


JITTING  alone  where  erst  I  sat, 

By  my  native  stream  in  boyhood's  years, 
Dreaming  on  changes  since  first  we  met, 
Telling  the  tides  of  my  toils  and  tears, 
Since  life  was  a  Joy  and  Hope  was  young, 
And  my  heart  to  other  themes  was  strung. 


Sitting  and  musing  with  feelings  strange 
On  those  dear  companions  of  my  youth, 

O  !  here  is  sorrow,  for  sorrow's  in  change, 

They  promised  me  Constance  to  love  and  truth  : 

Now  where  are  they  who  have  with  me  roved 

By  the  meadows  fair  and  the  paths  we  loved  ? 


Chasing  the  birdling,  gathering  flowers, 
Wantonly  wading  the  crystal  stream, 

Flinging  its  waters,  whose  misty  showers 

Framed  rainbow  tints  in  the  sun's  fair  beam, — 

Shouting  where  Echo  returned  the  sound 

With  his  mellow  voice,  to  our  joy  profound. 


SIT'l'IXC,  ALONE.  153 


Watching  the  lav'rock's  winnowing  flight 

Till  he  seemed  but  a  speck  in  the  calm  blue  sky, 

While  soft  as  the  air  of  a  summer  night 
Fell  the  voices  of  raining  melody 

On  the  ravished  heart,  like  a  deep-fraught  spell, 

Where  the  tones  of  its  gladness  shall  ever  dwell. 


How  dear  our  youthful  memories  grow 
As  the  years  with  noiseless  pace  roll  on  ! 

They  burst  from  their  shrine  away  below, 
And  glitter  like  streams  in  the  morning  sun, 

Looking  through  human  doubt  and  fear, 

As  the  burning  stars  through  the  dark  clouds  peer. 


O  !  ever  thus  shall  my  early  joys, 

Youth's  friends,  scenes,  passions  fill  my  breast, 
Till  Time,  whose  numbing  touch  destroys, 

And  sets  the  pulse  of  life  to  rest, 
And  ushers  the  dawn  of  another  sky 
To  canopy  immortality ! 


Sitting  and  musing  with  feelings  strange, 
Mingled  with  gladness  in  sorrow  lost, 

Because  in  the  glance — my  spirit's  range — 
I  miss  the  forms  I  had  loved  the  most, 

Which  lie  'neath  the  turf  by  dasies  spread, 

Unmoved  by  the  lark's  song  overhead. 


Sitting  alone  by  the  spreading  thorn, 

Crowned  with  blossom  in  June's  first  days, 

W^here  the  thrush  through  the  early  hours  of  morn 
Pours  forth  his  'rapturing  songs  of  praise, 

Which  echoing  die  in  the  distance  dim, 

Like  the  fainting  strains  of  a  holy  hymn. 


154  SITTING  ALVXE. 


My  native  stream,  though  far  I've  roved 
In  lands  beyond  the  ocean's  wave, 

Mid  scenes  and  forms  my  bosom  loved, 
Dear  as  the  light — the  fair,  the  brave, 

Where  the  breezes  ring  with  Freedom's  voice 

And  men  in  Liberty  rejoice, 


I  love  thee  still — shall  ever  love 

The  tender  memories  of  my  youth, — 

Thy  hawthorn  shades  and  willow  grove, 
The  friendships  formed  in  changeless  truth 

Shall  fade  not,  though  by  Fate's  decree 

I  wander  far  from  home  and  thee  ! 


IRevflle's  Cross, 


Ballafc  on  tbe  Battle  of 


Cross.* 


N  conscious  strength,  with  haughty  tread, 

King  David's  army  comes, 
For  Scotland's  sons  for  honour's  crown 

Have  left  their  native  homes, 
And  proudly  toss  their  sable  plumes  : 

Their  brilliant  armour  gleams, 
And,  like  the  light  from  summer's  sun, 
A  flood  of  radiance  teems. 


*  A  mile  to  the  west  of  the  City  of  Durham,  are  the  remains  of  an 
old  cross,  called  Neville's  Cross,  erected  by  Ralph  Lord  Neville,  to 
commemorate  a  remarkable  battle  fought  here  on  the  I7th  of  October, 
1346,  in  the  reign  of  Edward  III,  between  the  English  and  Scotch 
armies,  called  the  Battle  of  Red  Hills,  or,  as  it  has  been  subsequently 
termed  from  the  above  erection,  the  Battle  of  Neville's  Cross.  In  that 
year,  whilst  Edward  III  was  prosecuting  his  victorious  career  in  France, 
David  the  Second,  King  of  Scotland,  having  collected  a  powerful  army 
of  30,000  men,  invaded  England  by  the  western  marches,  showing  tokens 
of  a  bloody  mind  in  the  outset  by  putting  the  garrison  of  Liddell  Tower 
to  the  sword,  'and,  with  strange  inhumanity,  causing  the  noble  knight, 
Walter  Selby,  the  governor  of  it,  to  be  beheaded  on  the  spot.  After 
burning  the  Abbey  of  Lanercost,  the  Scots  pursued  their  usual  route 
through  Cumberland  and  Tynedale.  They  sacked  the  Priory  of  Hex- 
ham,  and  afterwards  entered  the  county  of  Durham  without  meeting 
serious  opposition.  Measures  were  concerted  for  opposing  the  invaders, 
and  a  body  of  troops,  numbering  16,000  men,  was  assembled  with  the 
greatest  expedition.  On  the  i6th,  the  day  preceding  the  battle,  David 
lay  at  Beaurepaire,  or  Bearpark,  while  the  English  army  was  encamped 
in  Auckland  Park.  At  nine  o'clock  the  following  morning,  the  armies 
being  in  sight  of  each  other,  the  Scottish  trumpets  sounded  the  advance. 
The  Scots  were  divided  into  three  divisions  :  the  first  was  led  by  the  High 


158  BATTLE  OF  NE /'///. /T.T 


Far  Liddell's  Tower  has  felt  their  rage, 

And  yielded  to  its  spell ; 
Here  gallant  Selby's  soul  of  fire 
Was  quenched  with  all  its  burning  ire, 

And  heaved  its  parting  swell. 
Where  Lanercost's  gray  Abbey  reared 

Its  sombre  form  on  high, 
The  ashes  yet  with  rapine  warm 

Of  ruined  grandeur  lie. 
See  on  the  Cumbrian  hills  afar, 

They  urge  their  eager  way ; 
Now  Hexham's  Priory  they  sack, 

But  spare  the  buildings  gray. 

Steward  of  Scotland  and  the  Earl  of  March  ;  the  Earl  of  Murray  and 
Lord  Douglas  commanded  the  second  ;  and  the  third,  consisting  of 
choice  troops,  in  which  was  incorporated  the  flower  of  the  Scottish 
nobility  and  gentry,  sustained  by  the  French  auxiliaries,  was  commanded 
by  the  King  in  person.  The  English  distributed  their  forces  into  four 
bodies :  Lord  Henry  Percy,  victor  of  Hallidon  Hill,  supported  by  the 
Earl  of  Angus,  the  Bishop  of  Durham,  and  several  northern  notles,  led 
the  first  ;  the  second  was  led  by  the  Archbishop  of  York,  accompanied 
by  the  Bishop  of  Carlisle,  and  the  Lords  Neville  and  Hastings  ;  the 
Bishop  of  Lincoln,  Lord  Mowbray,  and  Sir  Thomas  Robeby  led  the 
third  division  ;  and  at  the  head  of  the  fourth  was  Edward  Baliol, 
supported  by  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  the  Lord  Roos,  and  the 
Sheriff  of  Northumberland.  Historians  agree  that  the  ground  whereon 
this  battle  was  fought  was  ill-chosen,  being  hilly  and  intersected  by  field 
enclosures,  which  considerably  retarded  the  movements  of  large  bodies 
of  men.  However,  the  Scots  came  on,  and  by  dint  of  sword  and  battle- 
axe  they  hurled  the  first  English  column  back.  But  Baliol,  rushing  in 
with  a  body  of  horse,  threw  the  Scotch  battalion  into  confusion,  and 
gave  the  English  time  to  rally  and  regain  their  ground.  The  Earl  of 
Murray  fell  at  this  juncture,  and  Sir  Wm.  Douglas  was  taken  prisoner  ; 
and  the  division  seeing  their  leaders  fall,  fell  into  disorder,  and  took  to 
flight.  But  the  fate  of  the  day  was  not  decided,  for  the  other  two 
divisions  of  the  Scots  stood  their  ground,  and  for  three  hours  naught  was 
heard  save  the  clash  of  arms,  the  breaking  of  spears,  the  muffled  twinge 
of  the  bow  as  the  archers  played  their  deadly  cloth-yards, — those  famous 
six-feet  bows,  which  won  for  England  imperishable  glory  on  many  a 
bloody  field  in  Scotland  and  France, — the  thunder  of  the  charging 
squadrons,  the  hoarse  shouts  of  the  combatants,  mingled  with  the  cries 
of  the  wounded,  and  the  groans  of  the  dying.  David  himself  fought 
with  the  courage  which  hope  lends  to  despair.  He  was,  however, 
disarmed,  and  led  from  the  scene  of  carnage.  On  the  fall  of  the  royal 
banner,  the  Scots  gave  way,  and  made  good  their  retreat,  but  not  till 
15,000  of  their  comrades  slept  their  last  sleep  on  the  field.  The  Cross 
erected  to  commemorate  the  English  victory  remained  standing  until 
1589,  it  which  year  it  is  said  to  have  been  defaced  and  broken  down. 


BATTLE  OF  NF.l'Il.LE'S  CROSS.  159 


Still  on  they  come  o'er  mount  and  glen, 

Relentless  as  the  storm, 
Till  Derwent's  sheltered  banks  are  gained 

Of  many  a  sylvan  charm. 
A  night  they  linger  on  the  spot 

Where  once  the  Roman  roved, 
And  dream,  no  doubt,  the  hallowed  shades 

The  Saxon  virgin  loved. 
But  restless  as  the  fallow  deer 

When  hunters  track  his  lair, 
Behold  them  now  by  Beaurepaire, 
Where  roll  thy  waves  pellucid  Wear, 

And  England's  bravest  dare. 

In  pomp  and  pageantry  of  war 

The  King  indulges  now, 
But  conquest  speaketh  in  his  eye, 

And  curls  his  warrior  brow. 
Now  round  him  Desolation  stalks, 

As  led  by  fiendish  powers, 
And  Durham  in  thy  precincts  now 

A  dread  destruction  lowers  : 
The  blazing  cot,  the  bridge,  the  tree, 

Send  up  their  flames  on  high, 
And  wanton  like  the  lightning's  wing 

In  midnight's  radiant  sky. 

Davies,  however,  in  his  "  Rights  and  Monuments,"  fully  describes  it. 
A  drawing  of  the  Cross  was  made  and  engraved  for  Hutchinson's 
History  of  the  County  Palatine,  printed  in  1787,  which  agrees  with 
Davies'  description,  and  may,  we  think,  in  the  general  features,  be 
accepted  as  a  fair  representation  of  the  original  erection.  For  the  loan 
of  this  beautiful  little  block  we  are  indebted  to  the  courtesy  of  Mr.  Geo. 
Walker,  author  and  publisher  of  the  Guide  to  Durham,  whose  father, 
at  the  beginning  of  this  century,  lent  it  to  Surtees  to  embellish  his 
magnificent  History  of  Durham.  It  is  believed  that  the  block  was  cut 
by  Thomas  Bewick, — at  least,  the  elder  Mr.  Walker  used  to  say  so,  and 
he  possessed  a  large  number  of  the  famous  engraver's  woodcuts.  The 
only  portion  of  the  Cross  now  remaining  is  the  octagonal  stone,  or  boss, 
referred  to  by  Davies  as  supporting  the  Cross.  The  pillar  let  into  it  is 
no  part  of  the  originil  erection,  having  evidently  been  pi  iced  there  in 
modern  times.  At  the  latter  part  of  1883,  Mr.  Dodds,  of  Rokeby  Villa, 
solicited  subscriptions  for  repiiring  the  Cross,  and  the  public  responding 
liberally,  the  mound  on  which  it  stands  has  been  repaired,  and  the  boss 
has  been  placed  on  a  stone  base,  a  strong  iron  palisade,  let  into  a  neat 
low  wall,  protecting  the  whole. 


160  BATTLE  OF  NEVILLE'S  CROSS. 


But  where  are  Albion's  hardy  sons 

That  erst  no  foe  could  tame, 
Who  conquered  or  conquering  have  left 

An  honoured — deathless  name  ? 
Have  Briton,  Roman,  Saxon,  Dane, 

And  Norman  blent  their  fire, 
To  yield  their  blood-bought  laurels  now, 

And  craven-like  expire  ? 
Where  is  that  more  than  mortal  pride 

In  patriot  souls  which  bled 
On  Hastings'  sanguine  field,  or  piled 

There  mountains  of  the  dead  ? 


Fear  not,  my  muse  ;  in  yonder  Park* 

Some  sturdy  warriors  lie  ; 
Still  burns  the  fire  of  chivalry 

In  Percy's  eagle  eye, — 
The  hero  soul  which  Victory  bore 

Through  Hallidon's  fierce  fight, 
Where  foemen  fell,  as  summer  rain 
Descends  upon  a  dusty  plain, 

And  sank  in  endless  night : 
The  offspring  of  a  noble  race, 

Who  strode  by  Rolla's  side,f 
By  prowess  on  to  victory  led, 
Or  side  by  side  with  honour  laid, 

And  crowned  with  glory  died  ! 
In  Neville's  arm  is  deadly  strength 

The  flashing  sword  to  wield, 
And  Copeland  J  to  a  northern  foe 

Was  never  taught  to  yield  : 

*  The  English  Army,  on  the  i6th,  "the  day  preceding  the  battle," 
was  encamped  in  Auckland  Park. 

+  We  are  informed  by  a  talented  biographer — Robt.  Harrison,  Esq., — 
that  the  Perries  were  descended  from  chieftains  who  aided  Rolla  to 
conquer  Normandy.  The  Barons  of  Percy  were  nobles  of  repute,  for 
nearly  two  centuries  previous  to  the  conquest  of  England. 

%  John  Copeland,  or  John  de  Copeland,  a  Northumbrian  Esquire, 
who  immortalised  himself  in  this  battle  by  capturing  the  King,  though  not 
before  David,  with  his  laced  gauntlet,  knocked  two  of  his  assailant's 
teeth  out.  There  are  descendants  of  this  valorous  Esquire  now  living  in 
the  vicinity  of  Shotley  Bridge. 


BATTLE  OF  NEVILLE'S  CROSS.  161 


Rokeby,  Baliol's  hearts,  I  ween, 
Ne'er  throbbed  with  aught  of  fear, 

But  England's  Crown,  their  native  land, 
And  Freedom,  hold  they  dear. 


The  morn  of  an  eventful  day 

At  length  has  fairly  dawned, 
And  front  to  front,  in  glancing  pride, 

The  hostile  armies  stand. 
The  Prior  and  devoted  train* 

Kneel  in  yon  hallowed  bower, 
Thy  holy  corporax  cloth  on  high, 
St.  Cuthbert,  greets  the  azure  sky, 

A  solemn  prayer  they  pour ; 
The  hearts  on  yon  Cathedral  Tower, 

Sweet,  fervent  strains  distil, 
Which,  as  the  liquid  speech  of  woe, 
Fall  on  the  glittering  stream  below, 

And  float  from  hill  to  hill 
Like  spirits  from  some  hidden  world 

Of  pain,  and  love,  and  prayer, 
They  wail,  rejoice,  and  summon  aid, 
In  lull  and  swell  by  the  breezes  made, 

They  glide  on  the  pregnant  air. 


But  hark  !     he  trumpet  sounds  the  charge, 

The  daunttless  Scots  advance, 
O'er  .haughty  brows  the  banners  wave, 

The  restless  chargers  prance. 
The  English  archers  pour  a  cloud 

Of  arrows  through  the  sky, 
And  many  a  noble  form  is  laid 

In  gore  to  writhe  and  die. 

*  On  the  spot  where  "  Neville's  Cross  "was  erected  in  commemoration 
of  this  victory,  previous  to,  and  during  the  progress  of  the  battle,  and 
within  sight  of  both  armies,  "  the  prior  with  his  attendants  knelt 
around  the  holy  corporax  cloth  of  St.  Cuthbert,  which,  in  obedience 
to  a  miraculous  vision,  was  elevated  on  the  point  of  a  spear,  whilst  the 
remaining  brethren  of  the  convent  poured  forth  their  hymns  from  the 
highest  tower  of  the  Cathedral." 


162  BATTLE  OP  NEVILLE'S  CROSS. 


See,  like  a  meteor,  through  the  heavens, 

Intrepid  Graham*  is  borne  ; 
The  archers  from  his  vengeful  sword 

In  nerveless  horror  turn  : 
Bravely  alone  he  wins  his  way — 

A  god  no  more  had  done — 
Till  he  in  the  unequal  fight 
Falls  like  an  eagle  struck  in  flight, 

When  soaring  to  the  sun. 
Now  wounded,  feeble  from  the  fray, 

He  seeks  his  ranks  again, 
With  ebbing  life  and  aspect  pale, 

Mingled  of  wrath  and  pain. 
Now  Scotland's  Steward  cleaves  his  way 

With  battle-axe  and  blade — 
The  archers  waver  at  the  stroke — 
Immortal  Percy's  ranks  are  broke — 

Disordered — not  dismayed. 
Courage  !  BalioFs  horsemen  come, 

With  vengeance  in  their  train  : 
Oh  Scotia  !  vain's  thy  valour  here — 

They  sweep  thee  from  the  plain  ! 


With  that  unconquerable  will, 

Which  death  may  tame  alone, 
Impetuous  David  struggles  still 
With  Neville  on  yon  crimsoned  hill, 
Where  life  is  gushing  like  a  rill, 

And  dying  warriors  groan. 
Again  brave  Baliol  seeks  the  foe, 

Resistless  as  a  wave, 
The  royal  guard  this  luckless  hour 
Recoil  before  the  conquering  power, 

Or  die  as  die  the  brave  ! 


*  John  Graham,  after  being  refused  by  the  King  an  hundred  lances  to 
break  the  archers,  "  actuated  by  courage  and  indignation,  threw  himself 
alone  upon  the  archers,  and  dispersed  them  on  every  side,  and  fought" 
until  his  horse  was  struck  by  a  broad  arrow,  and  himself  wounded  and 
bleeding,  was  scarcely  able  to  regain  the  ranks  of  his  countrymen  with 
life." 


BATTLE  OF  NEVILLE'S  CROSS.  163 


Brave  Murray  and  his  hapless  few, 

Where  Death  and  Havock  reign, 
By  countless  foes  environed  fight, 

But  ne'er  shall  fight  again. 
"  England  and  Victory  "  shake  the  field, 

And  Scotland  drinks  the  sound, 
But  'mid  confusion,  panic,  flight, 
And  voices  of  despair,  delight, 

The  mingling  words  are  drowned. 

But  Caledonia  in  the  shock 

Has  not  forgot  her  King,* 
The  best  of  Albyn's  sons,  endowed 
With  courage  high  and  spirits  proud 
(As  light  may  fringe  the  darkest  cloud) 

Around  him  form  a  ring  ! 
But  bootless  all :   the  halo  bright 
Is  but  a  ray  of  transient  light. 

See  daring  Copeland  spring, 
Like  preying  tiger  fiercely  eyed, 
And  dash  the  glittering  swords  aside, 

And  seize  the  struggling  king  ! 
Now  Royal  rage  is  worse  than  vain, 
The  monarch  is  a  captive  ta'en. 

Silence  again  her  reign  assumes, 

Save  on  the  stilly  air 
Falls,  like  a  voice  from  out  the  grave, 

Some  wounded  soldier's  prayer. 
The  monks  have  ceased  their  hymning  strain, 

The  blushing  Wear  rolls  on, 
The  heart's  blood  of  ten  thousand  glides 
All  passionless  within  his  tides, — 

The  battle's  lost  and  won  ! 

*  "  Has  not  forgot  her  King,"  alluding  to  the  gallant  band  of  Scotch 
nobles,  who  formed  themselves  around  their  King,  and  fought  so  well, 
but  vainly,  to  save  him  from  being  taken  captive  by  the  English. 


Xines  on  tbe  Deatb  of  tbe  Hutbor'6 
flDotber,  flDarcb,  1873, 


WAS  sad  to  part  in  our  earthly  home, 
And  lay  thee  to  sleep  in  the  grassy  tomb ; 
To  see  the  radiance  fade  and  die, 
And  darkness  steal  o'er  thy  loving  eye  ; 
To  think  that  Silence  his  seal  had  set 
On  thy  heart  and  pale  lip  quivering  yet ; 
To  know  that  thy  voice,  so  soft  and  sweet, 
Which  taught  me  infant  prayers  t'  repeat, 
For  e'er  was  hushed  to  an  earthly  ear, 
And  only  heard  in  a  higher  sphere. 


O  !  sweet  be  thy  joy  on  that  hallowed  shore, 
Where  thy  soul  finds  peace  for  evermore 
In  elysian  fields,  where  spirits  dwell, 
Bound  in  the  power  of  a  mighty  spell 
Thrown  from  the  eye  of  Eternal  Love, 
Which  kindles  to  splendour  the  realms  above. 


MOTHER. 


165 


O  !  here,  as  free  as  a  summer  bird, 

Thou'lt  sing  the  songs  that  earth  never  heard, 

Save  dying  ears  when  the  angels  came 

The  fair  and  loved  of  heaven  to  claim, 

To  bear  them  on  wings  of  Love  away 

Through  the  star-gemmed  blue  to  celestial  day. 


!  Cell  flDe  mot 


TELL  me  not  of  pleasures  past, 
Tis  but  an  idle  dream, 

A  ray  from  joyous  memories  cast 
On  life's  dark  rolling  stream. 


For  when  'tis  gone  a  denser  gloom 
Creeps  o'er  the  troubled  heart, 

As  shadows  darkle  o'er  the  tomb, 
And  sorrow's  self  impart. 


Like  waveless  ocean,  dark  and  deep, 

Let  parted  moments  be, 
Where  tamed  and  tired  tempests  sleep, 

From  wreck  and  riot  free. 


And  show  me,  as  with  Faith's  clear  eye, 

Where  future  glories  shine, 
And  Virtue's  immortality 

With  Joy  and  Triumph  twine. 


Xines  Written  on  a  Wsit.to  Ibamsterleg,  November,  1883. 


|OW  pleasant  on  this  genial  Autumn  day, 
(Though   blooming  flowers   strew   not  my 

winding  way, 

And  every  gentle  breath  of  western  breeze 
Shakes  the  sear'd  foliage  from  majestic  trees, 
Though  the  bright  rill  is  singing  in  mine  ear 
A  mournful  requiem  over  Summer's  bier, 
Though  birds  are  mute,  and  mother  Nature  now 
Is  shining  not  upon  the  rose's  brow), 
To  rove  these  solemn  shades,  in  thought  profound, 
Where  every  spot  I  tread  is  hallowed  ground. 

Yet  sweeter  still,  methinks,  'neath   Springtime's  sky, 

To  linger  here  would  be  to  poet's  eye, 

When  Nature  throws  her  ever  comely  dress 

Upon  the  grove,  the  field,  the  precipice, 

And  larks  on  rapture's  wings  ascend  on  high, 

Pouring  celestial  drops  of  melody  ; 

And  the  sweet  thrush  and  blackbird  cheer  the  day, 

Or  sing  the  quiet  hours  of  eve  away ; 

And  every  linnet's  simple  song  is  dear 

As  sighing  zeyhyrs  to  the  list'ning  ear ; 

When  starry  flowers  appear  so  bright  they  give 

The  soul  a  radiant  hope,  and  bid  it  live. 

*  Hamsterley,  on  the  Dcrwent,  the  residence  of  the  Misses  Surtees. 


168  HAMSTERLEY. 


But  dearer  still  than  even  these  to  me, 

Yea,  e'en  the  streamlet's  liquid  lullaby, 

To  stand  in  serious  mood  and  muse  awhile, 

In  pleasure  lost,  on  this  romantic  pile,* 

And  hear,  as  thoughtful  Surtees  oft  was  wont, 

The  dashing  waterfall  of  rocky  Pont ; 

Or  view  the  tow'ring  Pontopike  afar, 

'Neath  Summer's  kindly  beam,  or  Winter's  war ; 

Or  nearer  gaze,  with  rapture-kindling  eye, 

Upon  these  fairer  scenes  of  beauty  by, 

Where  Nature's  lavished  smile  and  Art  have  given 

A  paradise  to  earth — a  dream  of  Heaven. 

Here  classic  Swinburne'st  skilful  hand  is  seen, 

For  yet  his  touches  linger  on  the  scene, 

To  charm  the  mind  of  taste,  and  lure  the  eye, 

And  breathe  the  author's  immortality. 

No  wonder,  then,  that  he  whose  feet  have  trod 

These  loved  and  dear  retreats,  ere  yet  to  God 

His  spirit  winged  her  everlasting  flight, 

Should  wish  again  to  visit  parent  earth, 
And  roam  these  cherished  bowers^  of  love  and  light, 

Which  gave  his  soul  enchantment  in  their  birth. 


*  Handley  Cross  Bridge,  a  beautiful  battlemented  structure,  built  by 
the  late  Mr.  R.  S.  Surtees,  from  which  can  be  distinctly  heard  the 
dashing  of  the  bold  and  rocky  waterfall  of  the  Pont,  and  seen  the 
northern  slopes  of  the  towering  Pontop  Pike ;  and  in  the  immediate 
vicinity,  scenery  of  the  most  exquisite  character. 

t  Mr.  Henry  Swinburne,  author  of  "Travels  in  Spain,"  and  "Letters 
from  the  Courts  of  Paris  and  Naples,"  a  former  owner  of  Hamsterley, 
whose  grounds,  in  his  hands,  "soon  became  remarkable  for  being  the 
most  picturesque  and  well  laid  out  of  any  in  that  part  of  the  county;  as 
they  combined  the  classic  precision  of  the  Italian  style,  with  the  more 
wild  and  sylvan  boldness  of  the  English  park  scenery. " 

%  Mr.  Swinburne,  who  was  passionately  attached  to  the  secluded 
beauties  of  Hamsterley,  concludes  a  letter  written  in  Trinidad,  where 
he  had  accepted  office,  and  shortly  afterwards  died,  in  1803,  with  the 
mournful  words — "  Nothing  interests  me  now  :  nothing  but  thoughts  of 
distant  home  occupy  my  mind.  I  shall  soon  be  like  what  we  read  of 
the  Indians  and  Africans,  that  think  when  they  die  they  shall  be  trans- 
planted back  to  their  native  groves.  I  wish  I  could  think  so," 


Cross 


HAMSTERLEY. 


Another  Surtees"*  eke  has  left  his  share 
Of  taste  and  beauty  on  these  landscapes  fair  : 
Not  Surtees,t  he  whose  genius  caught  its  hues 
Or  striking  colours  from  the  Laughing  Muse  ; 
Yet  true  was  he  to  Nature  as  to  Art, 
And  many  a  wond'rous  welcome  lesson  taught, 
And  deeply  'graved  them  on  the  human  heart. 
And  though  the  verdant,  beauteous  grove  may  fade, 
The  birch  decay,  and  vanish  from  the  glade, 
And  though  the  oaks,  whose  leafy  honours  wave 
(Their  shadows  trembling  in  their  glassy  grave), 
Should  die  beneath  the  crumbling  touch  of  Time, 

Or  ruined  fall  beneath  the  tempest's  breath, 
Still  shall  he  flourish,  as  in  youthful  prime, 

With  deep-browed  Swinburne,  and  know  nought 
of  death. 


*  Mr.  Anthony  Surtees,  successor  to  Mr.  Swinburne  at  Hamsterley, 
was  a  great  sportsman,  and  a  scientific  and  extensive  planter,  whose  love 
of  woodland  scenery  was  intense,  and  his  admiration  of  his  predecessor's 
taste  in  the  department  of  ornamental  planting  unbounded.  His  friend 
and  relative,  the  late  celebrated  historian  of  the  county,  paid  him  no 
unmerited  compliment  in  saying  that  Hamsterley  had  improved  in  his 
hands. 

t  Robert  Smith  Surtees,  second  son  of  Anthony  Surtees,  succeeded 
to  the  patrimonial  estates  in  1838.  Having  been  born  and  bred  within 
hearing  of  Mr.  Ralph  Lambton  and  his  famous  foxhounds,  he  commenced 
his  career  with  some  account  of  their  doings,  as  well  as  of  other  kennels, 
in  the  old  Sporting  Magazine.  In  the  year  1831,  he  published  "  The 
Horseman's  Manual,"  being  a  treatise  on  soundness,  the  law  of  warranty, 
and  generally  on  the  laws  relating  to  horses.  This  work  was  written 
whilst  the  author  was  at  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  and  in  it  are  revealed  his 
tastes  as  a  sportsman,  and  his  education  as  a  lawyer.  It  is  the  more 
interesting  because  of  its  dedication  to  a  gentleman  whose  name  is  a 
household  word  in  the  north — the  late  Ralph  John  Lambton,  Esq.,  of 
Merton  House,  Durham.  Between  these  two  gentlemen  a  most  intimate 
acquaintance  existed  during  their  lifetimes,  not  only  as  kindred  sportsmen, 
but  as  personal  friends.  A  portrait,  painted  by  Mr.  Francis  Grant,  was 
publicly  presented  to  Mr.  Lambton  in  1837,  and  the  sketch  from  which 
it  was  made  was  given  to  Mr.  Surtees,  who  was  mainly  instrumental  in 
the  picture  being  painted.  This  sketch,  which  is  a  striking  likeness  of 
the  gallant  old  foxhunter,  occupies  a  prominent  place  above  the  carved 
stone  mantlepiece  in  the  dining  room  at  Hamsterley.  Very  shortly  after 
the  publication  of  his  treatise  on  the  horse,  Mr.  Surtees,  in  conjunction 
with  Mr.  Rudolph  Akerman,  started  ^the  "  New  Sporting  Magazine," 


I72  HAMSTERLEY. 


But  let  me  further  rove,  in  pleasing  dream, 

The  mazes  of  this  pure  and  limpid  stream, 

For  here  are  treasures  still  to  be  explored, 

And  latent  beauties  yet  to  be  adored, — 

Gardens  where  blushing  roses  erst  did  bloom, 

And  left  the  ling'ring  breath  of  their  perfume. 

Behold  Mazzunti's*  walk,  in  soothing  shade, 

As  'twere  for  timid  lovers'  courtship  made : 

Here  Swinburne  often  came,  and  left  a  spell 

Of  ghost-like  presence  by  a  lucid  well, 

Where  oft,  perchance,  he  quaffed  the  sparkling  wave — 

Dear  Nature's  nectar,  or  did  hither  lave 

His  fevered  brow,  ere  yet  he  raised  his  eye 

To  catch  the  lustre  of  the  sunny  sky  ; 

Or  feed  his  polished  mind  on  features  near, 

So  dear  to  him,  for  his  sake  also  dear 

To  many  others,  in  whose  minds  shall  dwell 

His  hallowed  memory  and  crystal  well. 

Still  further  let  me  trace  this  shadowy  vale, 

Whose  woody  depths  scarce  know  the  northern  gale, 

which  he  edited  until  1836.  "Nothing,"  says  the  writer  of  a  memoir  of 
Mr.  Surtees  which  appears  in  his  work,  "Jorrocks' Jaunts  and  Jollities," 
"  could  well  exceed  the  success  of  this  work.  Nimrod  almost  imme- 
diately joined  it,  while  Mr.  Surtees  himself  touched  on  a  vein  of  rich 
humour,  of  which,  in  such  a  field,  there  had  hitherto  been  no  suspicion. 
But  Mr.  Surtees  was  something  more  than  a  satirist  or  a  humourist — he 
was  a  sportsman,  and  hence  the  force  and  effect  he  was  enabled  to  give 
to  his  sketches — the  foundation  of  truth  upon  which  he  laid  his  quaint, 
fanciful  structures."  Mr.  Surtees'  time  was,  as  may  be  well  imagined, 
fully  occupied  upon  his  literary  labours,  or  in  attending  to  the  duties 
that  devolved  upon  him  as  a  country  gentleman,  and  a  magistrate  for 
the  counties  of  Durham  and  Northumberland.  He  took  the  deepest 
interest  in  agriculture,  and  frequently  presided  at  the  annual  meetings 
of  the  members  of  the  old  Derwent  and  Shotley  Bridge  Agricultural 
Society,  his  speeches  on  these  occasions  being  redolent  with  wit  and 
humour. — Abridged  from  the  History  of  West  Durham. 

*  "  Mazzunti's  Walk,"  so  called  by  Mr.  Swinburne,  stretching  from 
the  east  side  of  the  Hall,  skirting  a  dean,  to  a  well,  over  which  Mr. 
Swinburne  had  placed  a  Latin  inscription,  of  which  he  gives  us,  in  one 
of  his  books,  an  English  translation,  which  discloses  the  refined  taste 
and  poetic  inspiration  of  the  author. 


HAMSTERLEY.  173 

And  tread  the  pathway  where  a  lady*  roved, 
A  fair  retreat  her  bosom  ever  loved : 
A  shade  from  noon-day  heat,  a  shelter  when 
The  ruthless  storm-king  howled  across  the  plain. 
No  longer  here  her  willing  feet  may  rove : 
On  higher  shores,  the  gift  of  heavenly  love, 
Her  spirit  dwelleth,  where  eternal  rest 
And  rapture  linger  ever  with  the  blest. 
Sweet  is  her  memory  still :  the  needy  poor 

Had  cause  to  ever  bless  her  bounteous  hand, 
And  weep  the  heart  that  can  relieve  no  more, 

Whilst  wand'ring  friendless  thro'  their  native  land. 


Lo  !  the  fair  mansion,  let  me  look  on  thee, 

Thou  home  of  Thought  and  Hospitality  ! 

And  with  the  rev'rence  due  the  minds  of  yore, 

Which  pour  rich  tributes  o'er  the  land  no  more, 

Recall  their  lettered  pages,  and  employ 

My  humble  mind  on  thoughts  which  gave  them  joy ; 

Range  o'er  their  fields  of  Fancy,  and  awake 

Their  own  creations  for  their  authors'  sake  : 

Admire,  at  least,  what  Genius  has  given 

(The  painter's  art,  a  glowing  gift  from  heaven), 

And  every  inspiration  they  impart 

Treasure  within  my  poor,  but  grateful  heart  ! 

*  To  the  west  of  the  mansion,  a  secluded  footpath,  taking  the  course 
of  a  small  brook,  leads  the  visitor  for  a  considerable  distance  through 
most  exquisite  woodland  scenery.  This  walk  was  made  for  Mrs.  Surtees, 
who  loved  to  wander  here  and  spend  a  quiet  hour  admiring  the  beauties 
of  Nature.  Mrs.  Surtees,  who  was  much  and  deservedly  beloved,  par- 
ticularly by  the  poor  around  her,  to  whom  she  was  ever  thoughtful  and 
kind,  died  in  1879. 


^Temperance  poems. 


Xittlc  Bow  of  Blue. 


JO  !  maiden,  listen  while  I  tell 

A  story  of  a  bow, 
But  not  of  such  an  one,  I  ween, 

As  you  are  wont  to  know ; 
Though,  sooth  to  say,  it  yet  may  prove 

As  honest  and  as  true, 
As  any  in  the  land  have  done, 
This  little  bow  of  blue. 


And,  youngster,  with  the  radiant  eye, 

Proud  brow,  erect,  and  fair, 
I'll  tell  you  how  you  may  escape 

The  cank'ring  tooth  of  Care  ; 
And  some  braw  lassie's  azure  orbs 

(Love's  lightning  flashing  through) 
May  see,  and  prize  the  wearer  of 

The  little  bow  of  blue. 


When  Winter's  storms  blow  loud  and  high, 

The  skies  are  foul  with  rain, 
Or  hailstones  patter  on  your  door, 

And  smite  the  window  pane, 
And  not  a  fissure  in  the  clouds 

To  show  the  heaven's  hue, 
I'll  tell  you  where  you  e'er  may  find 

A  tiny  strip  of  blue. 


178  THE  LITTLE  BOW  OF  BLUE. 

O !  blue,  thou  hast  a  magic  sound, 

Whate'er  thy  shade  may  be  ; 
Thou  rob'st  the  skies  in  loveliness, 

And  tint'st  the  tossing  sea. 
The  harebell  by  the  daisied  mead, 

Is  beautiful  to  view ; 
But  most  we  dote  upon  thee 

In  the  pretty  bow  of  blue. 


Yes  !  bow  of  chaste  cerulean, 

There's  something  in  thy  name, 
Breathing  on  Virtue's  smouldering  fire, 

Which  kindles  it  to  flame  : 
That  flame  flows  round  the  hardest  heart, 

And  softens  it  like  dew, 
To  take  impressions  fresh  from  God, 

O  glorious  bow  of  blue ! 


Thou  hast  a  meaning  deeply  set, 

And  tell'st  of  future  joys, — 
Of  Pleasure's  glow  on  earth  below, 

Re-union  in  the  skies. 
'Tis  sweet  to  dream  of  meeting  those 

We  loved, — though  lost  to  view, — 
Who  may  have  won  their  victory 

By  the  hallowed  bow  of  blue. 


Now,  friends,  if  Sorrow's  shadows  fall 

Across  your  brow  and  floor, 
And  Dissipation's  hand  has  barr'd 

The  blessings  from  your  door, 
I'll  show  you  how  to  ope  the  gate 

To  happiness  anew, — 
By  taking  from  a  Christian  hand 

A  precious  bow  of  blue. 


TOM  JONES.  179 

The  scribes  are  at  the  table, 

To  take  down  all  your  names, 
And  tell  you,  through  their  looks  of  love, 

That  Christ  His  own  reclaims ; 
And  ladies  fair  with  gentle  hands 

To  minister  to  you, 
And  give  you,  with  their  blessing, 

The  happy  bow  of  blue. 

Trust  not  until  to-morrow — 

To-morrow  may  not  come, 
And  Death  may  intercept  you, 

Ere  you  reach  your  wonted  home. 
So  come  and  take  the  Pledge  at  once, 

A  treasure  tried  and  true, 
And  you'll  bless  the  happy  time  you  donned 

The  bonnie  bow  of  blue. 


ZTom  Jones. 

OU  may  talk  about  the  joy, 
And  the  bliss  without  alloy, 
All  the  Bacchanalian  fancies, 
And  his  wit — Tom  Jones  ; 
Of  the  jolly-going  song, 
And  chorus  loud  and  long, 
When  merry  folks  among, 
As  you  like — Tom  Jones. 

You  may  drown  your  grief-worn  soul 
Within  the  sparkling  bowl, 
Nor  reflect  upon  the  goal 

As  you're  wont — Tom  Jones  ; 
And  point  some  rosy  face 
As  a  model  of  his  race, 
And  attribute  Beauty's  grace 
To  the  drink — Tom  Jones. 


i8o  TOM  JONES. 

You  may  mark  some  haggard  form, 
As  a  prey  to  the  reform 
Touching  alcoholic  liquors 

Doing  harm — Tom  Jones  ; 
And  laugh  at  honest  men, 
Who  do  the  best  they  can 
To  urge  some  temperance  plan 

For  your  good — Tom  Jones. 


You  may  revel,  you  may  rant, 
And  charge  us  all  with  cant ; 
Such  stuff  we  do  not  want 

From  your  lips — Tom  Jones. 
'Tis  the  thought  of  better  souls 
Than  Alcohol  enthrals, 
Which  the  brave  and  noble  sigh  for 

And  possess — Tom  Jones. 


But  your  joy  to  grief  will  turn, 
And,  alas  !  such  bliss  you'll  mourn, 
And  all  your  glowing  fancies 

Turn  to  woe — Tom  Jones. 
And  the  revel  and  the  song 
To  sorrow  change  ere  long, 
As  all  things  really  wrong 

Ever  must — Tom  Jones. 


Though  the  sorrow  of  the  soul 
You  may  drown  within  the  bowl, 
When  you  look  upon  the  goal 

In  calmer  thought — Tom  Jones, 
And  the  rosy  face  decayed 
In  the  mould  is  lowly  laid, 
Your  folly  you'll  upbraid, 

I've  no  doubt — Tom  Jones. 


TOM  /ONES.  181 

And  the  form  on  which  your  eyes 
Did  fall  but  to  despise, 
May  still  have  got  the  action 

To  do  good — Tom  Jones. 
And  the  honest  men  may  still 
Be  labouring  with  a  will, 
To  check  the  poisoned  rill 
Which  has  slain  as  many  millions 

As  old  Time — Tom  Jones. 


For  the  cant — well,  let  that  go : 

We  admit  we  are  not  slow 

To  strike  with  language  stirring 

On  the  point — Tom  Jones; 
And  bare  Corruption's  heart, 
As  the  brave  and  honest  ought, 
Though  we're  bullied  for  the  part 

Which  we  act — Tom  Jones. 


There  are  moments  in  our  souls, 
When  the  voice  of  Conscience  calls, 
Like  a  troubled  ocean  rolling, 

And  we  feel — Tom  Jones, 
That  the  basest  passions  fly, 
When  we  dream  that  we  must  die, 
And  the  lingering  virtues  sigh 

O'er  the  past — Tom  Jones. 


So  remember  all  thy  grief, 
And  the  oft-sighed-for  relief, 
'Twere  sweet,  however  brief, 

To  thy  heart — Tom  Jones, 
From  hell's  consuming  flame, 
The  thirst  we  need  not  name, 
That  brought  thee  to  the  shame 

Which  thou  know'st — Tom  Jones. 


1 82  M.VANGELINE. 

May  thy  brain  (perhaps  it  shall) 
Throw  off  the  tyrant's  thrall, 
And  the  wormwood  and  the  gall 

Of  remorse — Tom  Jones. 
Then  thy  mind  may  speak  the  thought 
Of  calmness  as  it  ought, 
For  a  cause  by  virtue  taught, 

Which  shall  live — Tom  Jones. 


Evangeline. 


VANGELINE  \ 

How  pale,  how  sad  thou  art  ! 
Thine  eyes  have  lost  their  laughing  light, 

And  sorrow  palls  thy  heart  ! 
No  more  the  sunny  smiles  of  joy 

Do  lighten  o'er  thy  face  ; 
Thy  form  no  longer  throws  around 

The  magic  of  its  grace. 
Thy  cheek,  where  beauty  beamed,  I  ween, 

Hath  lost  its  roseate  hue, 
And  all  that  made  thee  beauty's  queen 
Hath  fled  for  evermore. 


Evangeiine  !  Evangeiine ! 

Reflection  well  may  mourn 
Our  happy  youth  and  innocence — 

Which  never  can  return. 
The  flowers  we  loved  have  lost  their  charms, 

And  love  is  almost  fled, 
For  what  to  mortal  eye  is  fair 

When  virtue's  self  is  dead  ? 
It  makes  me  weep  the  change  to  dream, 

For  memory  drives  me  wild  ; 
The  surging  waves  of  passion's  stream 

Have  all  my  soul  defiled. 


EVANGELINE.  183 

Evangeline  !  Evangeline ! 

Thy  silence  rends  my  breast ; 
Thou  dost  not  murmur,  though  thou  hast 

No  hope  of  earthly  rest. 
Alas  !  I  never  felt  till  now 

Th'  impenetrable  gloom 
Which  sin  hath  cast  around  me, 

Like  the  shadows  of  the  tomb. 
Thou  dost  not  murmur,  though  thou  know'st 

Thy  earthly  bark  is  driven, 
A  tempest  tost  and  shattered  wreck, 

From  love,  and  hope,  and  heaven. 


Evangeline !  Evangeline  ! 

O  !  wilt  thou  yet  forgive 
"  The  plighted  husband  of  thy  youth  ?" 

And  bid  my  soul  revive 
The  dream  of  bliss  thou  erst  inspired 

In  days  so  long  ago, 
Which,  like  a  marsh-lamp  through  the  gloom, 

Is  fading  faint  and  low 
Within  my  breast,  whose  sable  shades 

Have  quenched  the  light  it  knew, 
When  virtue  smiled  ere  sorrow  frowned, 

And  I  to  thee  was  true. 


Evangeline  !  Evangeline  ! 

The  children  of  our  love 
Have  died  ere  yet  their  childhood  fled, 

And  rove  in  realms  above  : 
They  were  not  fed  and  clothed  as  ought 

A  Christian  child  to  be, 
And  this  one  thought  my  soul  enthrals 

And  will  not  set  me  free. 
O  !  that  some  Lethe's  wave  would  rise 

And  sweep  it  from  my  breast, 
And  my  sad  heart  be  passionless, 

Or  know  its  former  rest ! 


184  SIT  DOWN  A    WEE. 

Evangeline !  Evangeline ! 

If  grief  hath  hallowing  power, 
Repentance  lead  the  soul  to  heaven, 

I'm  saved  this  very  hour. 
So  throw  the  sorrow  from  thee,  love, 

There's  hope  beyond  the  grave, 
The  God  who  spared  me  through  my  crime 

Hath  yet  the  power  to  save  : 
And  I  thine  evening's  calm  will  light 

With  love  which  yet  doth  burn — 
A  burnished  sky  o'er  the  setting  sun 

Tells  of  refulgent  morn. 


Sit  Down  a 


|IT  down  a  wee  —  sit  down,  guid  wife  ; 

What  ca's  the  tear-drap  to  your  ee  ? 
O  !  weel  I  ken  o'  inward  strife, 

That  tears  thy  tender  breast  for  me. 
I've  seen  itlang,  I've  suffered  sair, 

And  shed  a  thousand  blindin'  tears  ; 
But  I'm  resolved  to  sin  na  mair, 

And  bury  a'  those  rolling  years, 
Jf  mem'ry  wi'  her  hauntin'  mirror 
Does  na  reflect  our  former  sorrow. 

Sit  down,  and  put  your  hand  in  mine  ; 

Our  better  days  are  a'  to  come. 
Jeanie,  when  first  my  saul  was  thine, 

I  dreamed  o'  nought  but  love  and  home  : 
I  thought  that  sin  could  hae  na  power, 

Nor  care  wi'  ought  o'  Jeanie  dwell, 
But  vain  the  vision  o'  that  hour, 

My  crimes  hae  made  an  earthly  hell, 
And  hell  itself  could  na  reveal 
A  horror  worse  than  that  I  feel  ! 


SIT  DOWN  A   WEE.  185 

And  though  'tis  twenty  years  sinsyne, 

I  yet  can  see  in  thy  sweet  face 
The  glowing  virtues  half  divine, 

And  feel  the  magic  o'  thy  grace ; 
The  thought  o't  warms  my  haggard  clay, 

As  spring-time's  sun  fa's  on  the  earth, 
The  beamy  splendour  o'  whose  ray 

Ca's  mony  a  flowery  gem  to  birth ; 
But  I  will  mak'  my  story  brief, 
'T  may  waukin  hope  or  heighten  grief. 

My  pleasure  was  a'  love  could  gie, 

When  first  I  wandered  by  thy  side  ; 
I  had  a'  warlds  could  gie  to  me — 

My  tender  Jean — my  bonnie  bride, 
But  comrades  woo'd  me  frae  thy  breast, 

To  bouse  till  mornin'  lit  the  sky  ; 
Fu'  weel  I  ken'd  'twad  break  thy  rest, 

And  fill  wi'  scaudin'  tear  thy  eye  : 
I  suffered  aft  and  sair,  I  ween, 
To  murder  thus  my  darling  Jean. 

Yet  on  I  went  my  devious  road, 

By  passion's  powerfu'  vengeance  driven, 

Like  streams  whase  banks  are  overflowed, 
When  thunder  rains  fa'  down  frae  heaven. 

The  bairnies  cam' — the  gifts  o'  grace, 

'  Wha  should  hae  wiled  me  frae  my  sin, 

But  na  the  charms  o'  ilk  sweet  face, 
My  saul  frae  darkling  crime  could  win, 

And  Jeanie,  I  beheld  the  while 

Thy  fading  cheek  and  waning  smile. 

I  saw  the  fire  that  lit  thine  eyes 

Grow  dim  beneath  the  weight  o'  woe, 

And  heard  impassioned  grief-born  sighs 
Express  thy  bosom's  rending  throe. 

I  marked  thee  turn  thine  eager  gaze, 
Wi'  aspect  hopeless  and  forlorn, 


186  GOUGIfS  PERORATION  ON  WATER. 

To  catch  'yond  sorrow's  gloomy  haze 
A  wee  bit  glimpse  o'  smiling  morn, 
Then  turn  wi'  anguish  in  thine  ee 
To  look  upon  disgrace  and  me. 

And  years  hae  come  and  years  hae  gane, 

Cauld  death  has  snatched  our  eldest  born, 
And  ta'en  her  weary  aching  brain 

For  ever  frae  the  light  o'  morn  ; 
And  Tammie,  too,  is  by  her  side, 

Nor  will  our  Willie  lang  be  here. 
O  God !  that  I  in  youth  had  died, 

Then  thou,  my  grief-worn  Jeanie  dear, 
Na  aught  o'  waefu'  want  had  ken'd — 
Enough  the  hearts  o'  rocks  to  rend. 

Some  blessings  we  hae  left  us  yet ; 

In  our  wee  Mary's  sheeny  eye 
The  remnants  o'  our  hopes  are  met, 

Which  breathes  some  still  remaining  joy. 
If  God  awhile  my  health  will  spare, 

And  thou  my  dwelling  to  adorn, 
His  ways  shall  be  my  greatest  care, 

And  kneeling  humbly  night  and  morn, 
His  praise  shall  fill  my  gratfu'  breast, 
Till  death  has  closed  mine  eyes  in  rest. 


peroration  on  Mater  IDersffieo. 

HIS  is  the  liquor  our  Father  brews 
For  His  children  here  which  their  strength 

renews, 

Not  o'er  smoky  fires  in  the  simmering  still 
Whose  choking,  poisonous,  gases  fill 
The  air  around  with  their  sickening  scent, 
With  odours  of  rank  corruption  blent, 
Does  our  Heavenly  Father  in  Heaven  prepare 


COUGH'S  PERORATION  ON  WATER  187 

This  essence  of  life,  this  water  rare, 

But  in  the  green  glade  and  grassy  dell> 

Where  the  red  deer  roves  'neath  Freedom's  spell, 

And  the  children  smile  in  their  .wonted  play 

When  they  seek  the  shade  from  the  summer's  ray, 

There  God  brews  it  ;  and  down,  low  down 

In  the  valley's  depths  where  the  fountain  flings 
To  the  balmy  gale  its  liquid  tune 
•  And  the  tinkling  rill  as  in  gladness  sings  ; 
And  on  the  mountain's  towering  height 

Where  the  golden  granite  shines  afar 
Beneath  the  sun's  refulgent  light, 

Where  the  storm-clouds  brood  and  hold  their  war, 
Where  the  thunders  crash  tremendously, 
And  away  far  out  on  the  wide,  wild  sea, 
Where  the  hurricane  howls  its  music  drear, 
And  the  big  waves  roar  the  chorus  here, 

Sweeping  the  march  of  Our  Heavenly  King. 
There  He  brews  it — this  soul  of  life — 
This  water  pure  of  health  so  rife, 

And  everywhere  'tis  a  beauteous  thing : 
In  the  dewdrops  fair  as  they  gleaming  lie 
On  their  velvet  couch  in  the  violet's  eye, 
Singing  so  sweet  in  the  summer  rain, 

As  it  bends  the  flower  on  its  fragile  stem, 
And  its  odours  spring  to  life  again, 
Shining  afar  in  the  icy  gem, 
Till  the  trees  to  living  jewels  run, 
Spreading  a  veil  o'er  the  setting  sun, 
Or  a  white  gauze  the  midnight  moon  to  pall, 
Sporting  in  every  waterfall ; 
In  the  glacier's  bosom  sleeping, 
In  the  lashing  hail  shower  dancing, 

Folding  its  bright  snow  curtains  round 
The  wintry  world  in  the  sunbeam  glancing, 

Weaving  the  rainbow's  hues  profound, — ' 
That  seraph's  zone  of  the  lovely  sky, 

Whose  warp's  the  gleaming  raindrop  of  earth, 
Whose  woofs  the  sunbeam  from  on  high 

All  chequer'd  o'er,  from  their  mystic  birth, 


i88         THE  REFORMED  DRUNKARD'S  ADDRESS. 

With  celestial  flowers,  by  refraction  given. 

Still  always  'tis  a  beauteous  thing, 

This  water  blest,  this  boon  of  Heaven : 

No  poison  bubbles  fro.m  its  spring, 

Nor  madness,  nor  murder,  from  out  its  foam 

Arise  like  fiends  from  their  hellish  home. 

Its  liquid  glass  no  blood  can  stain, 

Nor  widows  nor  starving  orphans  rave, 
Nor  weep  hot  tears  in  its  depths  in  vain  ; 

No  drunkard's  shrieking  ghost  from  the  grave 
In  deep  despair  shall  his  curses  howl : 

Would  you  exchange  it  ?  speak  out,  my  friend, 
For  the  demon's  drink — cursed  Alcohol ! 


j|Y  sweet,  my  patient  Wilhomine ! 
What  anguish  have  thy  blue  eyes  seen, 
What  pent-up  sorrow  filled  thy  breast, 
When  terror  took  the  place  of  rest ! 
How  oft  those  orbs,  bedewed  with  tears, 
Have  looked  for  dawning  light  through  fears ! 
You  bore  my  slow  decay  of  love, 
While  asking  aid  from  realms  above, 
To  snatch  me  from  the  sin,  whose  powers 
Blight  virtue's  fairest,  loveliest  flowers  ; 
And  tells  of  man's  undying  crime, 
That  haunts  him  still  through  every  clime, 
And  rankles  in  his  children's  veins, 
Who  seldom  know  the  sire  who  gave 
The  earthly  hell,  expressed  in  pains, 
Which  bear  them  to  an  early  grave. 
The  gifts  of  gracious  Heaven  were  ours, 
Whose  angel  forms  I  ne'er  caressed, 
For  I  was  swayed  by  darker  powers 
Than  those  which  seek  a  nobler  breast : 
They  lived  in  want  and  misery, 


THE  REFORMED  DRUNKARD'S  ADDRESS.         189 

They  died,  and  you  with  grief  were  wild, — 

Alas !  it  was  not  so  with  me — 

No  sacred  thought  my  soul  beguiled  ; 

I  false  to  nature,  feeling  too, 

But  you  to  both  and  heaven  were  true. 

And  we  are  childless,  Wilhomine ! 

For  Death  hath  ta'en  them  one  by  one ; 

They  moulder  in  the  churchyard  green, 

And  we  are  left  to  dwell  alone. 

Oh!  when  the  past  I  dream  and  you, 

My  folly,  madness,  bid  me  start  ; 

Remorse's  tempest  sweeps  me  through, 

And  preys  upon  my  stricken  heart. 

Could  scalding  tears  of  bitter  grief 

To  crime's  afflictions  bring  relief, 

Then  might  I  hope  for  peace  of  mind, 

To  mix  among  and  love  my  kind, 

And  make  amends  for  influence  spent 

In  driving  others  from  content. 

But  there  is  something  night  and  day 

Which  makes  my  calm  of  soul  its  prey, 

And  places  suffering  progeny, 

And  you,  whom  once  I  loved  so  well, 

Before  mine  eyes,  that  I  may  see 

What  constitutes  my  proper  hell ; 

For  all,  I've  learnt,  who  harbour  crime, 

Shall  have  their  earthly  pleasure  marred. 

The  truth's  expressed  by  sage  sublime  : 

Fair  virtue  is  her  own  reward. 

Fit  sorrow  mine — fit  anguish  this, 

But  you  are  blameless,  and  I  feel 

(While  heaven's  afflicting  rod  I  kiss) 

A  purpose  in  me  like  the  steel, 

Which  bends  but  will  not  break,  so  strong 

My  soul  hath  waxed  to  face  the  wrong. 

I  pledge  thee  in  this  subtle  grief 

Which  asks,  nor  claims,  nor  seeks  relief, 

Remembering  God  beholds  the  vow, 

Whose  spirit  surely  fills  me  now, 

That  I  the  poison  cup  will  spurn, 


190         THE  REFORMED  DRUNKARD'S  ADDRESS. 

Nor  treat  its  votaries  hence  with  scorn ; 
For  who  that  finds  the  shores  of  peace, 
From  danger's  tossing  ocean  free, 
Would  not  at  once  desire  release 
To  erring  brothers  still  at  sea  ? 
Tho'  'tis  God's  will  that  those  who  err 
Must  suffer  conscience's  keenest  woe, 
Remorse  will  seize  the  murderer, 
Though  human  law  the  lash  forego. 
It  is  not  scorn  and  hate  they  need 
Who  quaff  the  dregs  of  misery's  bowl ; 
They  reap  in  suffering  for  the  deed, 
And  hasten  to  an  awful  goal, 
Except  unearthly  hands  to  save 
Are  stretched  to  check  the  rolling  wave 
Of  passion  ere  it  'whelm  below, 
Who  else  to  trembling  madness  go. 
It  is  thy  smile,  philanthrophy, 
Inspired  by  Christian  charity, 
v  To  soften,  soothe,  make  chaste  the  heart — 
Go  forth  and  do  thy  holy  part. 
Shame  on  the  thoughtless  government 
That  sees  the  land  with  darkness  pent, 
A  licensed  fountain  flowing  free 
To  quench  the  fire  of  liberty ; 
Which  plants  a  fiend  in  many  a  heart, 
And  preys  upon  the  nobler  mind, 
The  soul  of  virtue,  love,  or  aught 
That  throws  a  blessing  o'er  mankind, 
But  lack  the  courage  to  upbraid, 
And  truckle  to  the  demon's  trade, 
And  tremble  lest,  in  evil  hour, 
The  slaves  of  wrong  should  snatch  their  power ; 
But  there  is  waking  in  the  land 
Than  this  an  impulse  more  sublime, 
And  armed  right  may  yet  command, 
And  baffle  hosts  that  foster  crime. 
Then  let  me  suffer  all  that's  known 
To  those  who  dare  to  follow  light, 
Which  flashes  from  the  eternal  throne 


ALCOHOL.  191 


Like  meteor's  radiant  fire  by  night, 

And  be  a  unit  of  the  throng 

Of  those  who  bravely  face  the  wrong  ; 

And  if  our  army  conquered  be, 

Who  strike  to  quench  a  nation's  woe, 

Our  death  were  immortality — 

Remorse  the  victor  should  o'erthrow ! 


/iDonarcb  aicobol. 

ASKED  of  the  Monarch,  called  Alcohol, 
If  ever  he  blessed  a  single  soul ; 
And,  alas !  he  cast  an  answer  down, 
With  a  demon  glance,  and  a  sable' frown, 
Which  bade  my  throbbing  heart  declare 
A  spirit  infernal  had  spoken  there, 
For  the  burning  speech  that  his  lips  did  breathe 
Was  fraught  with  the  pangs  of  woe  and  death. 
I  will  give  you  all,  with  reflection's  aid, 
The  burden  of  what  the  monarch  said: — 


I  roam  the  earth,  and  I  sail  the  sea,  * 
I  flit  as  on  wings  of  the  viewless  wind, 
I  reign  supreme  where'er  I  be, 
And  fetter  the  powers  of  the  gifted  mind; 
I  tell  my  votaries  that  rosy  wine 
Will  give  them  a  joy  that  is  half  divine, 
That  pleasure's  imparted  to  all  who  quaff 
Expressed  in  the  ring  of  their  merry  laugh. 
I  meet  with  a  maiden  of  flowing  hair, 
With  a  breast  as  pure  as  a  maid's  may  be, 
And  as  free  as  the  wand 'ring  desert  air, 
And  joyous  as  mountain  melody ; 
Through  society  I  cast  her  a  spell 
Which  serves,  I  ween,  my  purpose  well, 
To  custom  a  slave,  she  fears  no  blame, 
And  I  lead  her  on  through  sin  to  shame. 


192  ALCOHOL. 

I  behold  the  youth  with  his  proud  bright  eye, 

And  cherry  lips  that  have  breathed  no  lie ; 

I  touch  him  with  my  magic  power, 

And  his  freedom  dies  from  that  very  hour. 

Now  he  follows  me  on  where'er  I  call, 

To  the  cottage  board  or  the  festive  hall, 

Where  my  praise  he  sings,  and  my  slave  shall  be, 

And  I  know  to  the  grave  he  shall  follow  me. 

To  the  peaceful  cot,  where  the  woodlands  blow, 
The  home  of  love  and  truth  I  go, 
Where  virtue  shines  in  her  humble  sphere, 
.  And  all  is  fair  and  lovely  here ; 
I  look  on  the  quiet  with  envious  eye, 
And  resolve  that  its  fairest  blooms  shall  die ; 
I  woo  the  husband  to  join  my  train 
At  the  village  inn,  just  o'er  the  plain, 
Where  I,  the  soul  of  their  social  pride, 
The  slayer  of  Care,  shall  e'er  preside  ; 
Though  I  know  my  wizard  wiles  may  fail, 
I  try  again,  and  at  length  prevail : 
And  I  wot,  whoe'er  my  votary  be, 
To  the  silent  grave  he  shall  follow  me. 
When  years  have  fled,  I  take  a  roam, 
And  visit  again  that  cotter's  home  : 
The  scene  is  changed  !  for  Pity  tells, 
With  tearful  eye,  where  Sorrow  dwells. 
The  father  has  gone  to  his  last  long  sleep, 
The  widow  and  children  in  sorrow  weep  ; 
And  I  laugh  as  I  say,  with  fiendish  pride, 
"  Ah  !  thus  have  virtue  and  quiet  died!" 

I  visit  the  pompous  lordling's  hall, 

And  scatter  discord  over  all ; 

From  a  weak,  fond  mother,  her  eldest  born 

Like  a  tempest-ravished  flower  is  torn. 

But  the  triumph's  mine,  for  I  deal  the  blow 

That  lays  their  pampered  loved-one  low ; 

And  laugh  again  o'er  my  victory, 

For  I  knew  to  the  grave  he  would  follow  me. 


ALCOHOL.  193 

I  traverse  the  squalid  haunts  of  men, 

To  muse  on  those  who  wear  my  chain ; 

And  hear  with  delight  the  starving  child, 

With  piteous  cries  and  accents  wild, 

Begging  a  morsel  of  bread,  that  rest 

May  visit  again  his  weary  breast ; 

But  the  sire  cares  naught  for  his  wails  and  cries, 

Or  whether  he  lives,  or  whether  he  dies  ; 

For  'tis  long  ago  since  he  joined  my  roll, 

And  is  on  his  way  to  a  drunkard's  goal, — 

For  'tis  true,  whoe'er  my  votary  be, 

To  the  grave — to  the  grave — he  shall  follow  me. 

To  the  fairest  spots  of  earth  I  go, 
And  change  them  to  scenes  of  sin  and  woe ; 
Though  the  Indian  strode  in  his  majesty, 
As  free  as  the  birds  of  the  mountains  are, 
I  fettered  his  steps,  and  dimmed  his  eye, 
And  lessened  his  vigour  in  toil  and  war; 
And  now  he  is  true  to  his  cup  and  chain, 
As  any  slave  of  my  lowly  train. 

Thus  on  and  on  through  the  earth  I  fly, 

Imparting  a  canker  that  will  not  die ; 

Till  numbers  on  numbers  have  legions  grown, 

And  army  on  army  I  count  my  own : 

And  statesmen  tremble,  but  may  not  dare 

To  wage  a'gainst  me  an  open  war ; 

For  they  know  my  slaves  no  pains  shall  spare 

Their  hopes  of  victory  to  blight  and  mar, — 

For  if  once  they  quaff  of  my  spirit  free, 

I  know  to  the  grave  they  shall  follow  me. 

The  monarch  who  rules  his  kingdom  well 
May  boast  the  power  of  his  magic  spell. 
The  Emperor,  too,  on  his  throne  of  pride, 
In  splendour  may  roam  his  dominions  wide. 
He  may  mutter  alone  to  his  despot  soul, 
That  his  power  extends  from  pole  to  pole ; 
The  Sultan,  the  King,  and  the  Shah  may  tell, 


194  STRIKE. 

That  their  subjects  flatter  and  serve  them  well : — 

Their  sway  has  its  limits,  but  mine  has  none, 

For  I  rule  the  cot,  the  hall,  the  throne, 

The  kingdom,  the  empire,  and  all  I've  ruled, 

The  wisest,  the  wittiest,  the  bravest  fooled. 

I'll  rule  the  new,  as  I  ruled  the  old, 

Assyria,  Greece,  Carthage,  and  Rome  the  bold ; 

I  saw  them  rise  to  their  glory's  bloom, 

I  saw  them  decay  and  sink  to  the  tomb  ; 

And  other  lands  I  rule,  called  free, 

Shall  share  in  such  a  destiny. 

Am  not  I  the  Monarch  of  Monarchs,  then  ? 

The  victor  of  victors,  enslaver  of  men  ? 

The  subjects  of  others  escape  their  sway, 

And  steal  to  other  lands  away ; 

But  whoever  1  whoever  !  my  votaries  be, 

To  the  grave — to  the  grave — they  shall  follow  me  ! 


Strffee. 

TRIKE  !  sufferer  from  the  Poison  Cup, 

Remorse's  pang,  exhaustless  Woe, 
Strike  !  and  thy  God  will  help  thee  up, 
And  bid  thy  soul  with  pleasure  glow. 
Strike  for  the  shore  where  light  doth  shine, 

(To  save  thy  soul  from  ruin's  wave), 
The  spark  is  from  the  fire  divine 

That  haunts  all  mortals  to  the  grave. 

Strike  !  maiden,  while  thy  charms  have  power 

Against  the  drink-fiend  of  our  land, 
And  give  thy  beauty — virtue's  dower — 

To  him  who  quaffs  not — with  thy  hand. 
Strike !  and  the  victory  shall  be  thine, 

With  hallowed  rights'  eternal  fire, 
For  better  hadst  thou  lonely  pine 

Than  dwell  with  one  of  low  desire. 


STRIKE.  195 

Strike  !  mother  for  the  right  to  keep 

Thy  hearth  from  all  pollution  free, 
That  burning  tears  thou  mayst  not  weep 

O'er  sin  and  starving  progeny  ; 
Strike  that  the  altar  of  thy  breast, 

Home  sacred  to  thine  inmost  heart, 
May  never  know  that  sad  unrest 

With  which  a  drunkard's  dwelling's  fraught. 

Strike  !  youngster  with  the  radiant  eye 

Undimmed  by  dissipation's  hand, 
Strike  !  that  the  shrine  of  Liberty 

May  flourish  in  thy  native  land : 
Strike  with  the  will  that  nerves  the  brave, 

The  axe  of  truth  thy  weapon  be, 
And  wrong  shall  find  an  early  grave, 

And  right  shall  shine  for  thine  and  thee. 

Strike  !  manhood  for  your  country's  sake, 

Your  fathers'  dust,  their  memories, 
That  you  may  with  the  just  awake 

To  "  bloom  immortal  in  the  skies  :" 
Strike  !  at  the  source  of  England's  crime, 

Her  moral's  bane,  her  upas  tree, 
That  man  may  find  a  fairer  clime 

Wherein  to  flourish  and  be  free  ! 


STANZAS  TO  QUEEN  VICTORIA  ...  ...  i 

SHOTLEY  BRIDGE             ...  ...  ...  7 

HALLGARTH  ...                ...  ...  ...  23 

To  THE  FAIRY  FIELDS  OF  LIGHT     ...  ...  31 

STANZAS  ON  SHELLEY'S  POEMS  ...  ...  35 

LINES  TO  THE  DERWENT  ...  ...  40 

THE  LOST  HUNTER         ...  ...  ...  46 

EBCHESTER    ...                ...  ...  ...  54 

STANZAS  IN  MEMORY  OF  DR.  RENTON  ...  64 

TOM  LOUGH  ...                ...  ...  ...  67 

SONG             ...                ...  ...  ...  75 

O!  THE  ROBIN  SINGS  SWEET  ...  ...  76 

THE  VILLAGE  HIRING     ...  ...  ...  78 

I  THINK  OF  THEE          ...  ...  ...  83 

WOMAN'S  BEAUTY            ...  ...  ...  85 

FORGET-ME-NOT                ...  ...  ...  87 

O!  SING  ME  A  SONG       ...  ...  ...  89 

HOPELESS      ...                ...  ...  ...  91 

SPRING          ...                ...  ...  ...  94 

To  A.E.L.     ...                ...  ...  ...  96 

THERE  LACKETH  SOMETHING  STILL...  ...  97 

SPIRIT  OF  BEAUTY           ...  ...  ...  99 

LINES  ADDRESSED  TO  MR.  PRIOR  ON  HIS  BRIDAL  DAY  101 

Tis  MERRY  ...  x             ...  ...  ...  103 

NAPOLEON  III                  ...  ...  ...  105 

LINES  ON  HEARING  A  SKYLARK  SING  IN  FEBRUARY  108 

HAPPINESS     ...                ...  ...  ...  109 

A  PRAYER     ...                ...  ...  ...  112 

SAY,  MARY    ...                ...  ...  ...  114 

STANZAS  TO  THE  SKYLARK  ...  ...  117 

STANZAS  TO  THE  DAISY  ...  ...  ...  119 

LINES  TO  THE  VIOLET    ...  ...  ...  122 

CHATTERTON...                 ...  ...  ...  123 


INDEX.  197 


IN  MEMORIAM  (MRS.  TURNER)        ...  ...  125 

LINES  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  FRIEND  (GEO.  O.  NIXON)  127 

REFLECTIONS...                ...                ...  ...  129 

STRAYED  FROM  THE  HAUNTS            ...  ...  131 

THE  PASSION'S  POWER    ...                ...  ...  134 

IN  MEMORIAM  (JOHN  W.  MUIR)      ...  ...  135 

IN  MEMORIAM  (MARK  WALL)           ...  ...  137 

LINES  ON  THE  FRANCO-GERMAN  WAR  ...  138 

STANZAS  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  CHILD  ...  141 

A  BRIDAL  WISH              ...                ...  ...  143 

TO-MORROW  . . .                 ...                ...  ...  145 

A  PROLOGUE                   ...                ...  ...  148 

Music           ...                ...                ...  ...  150 

SITTING  ALONE                ...                ...  ...  152 

BALLAD  ON  THE  BATTLE  OF  NEVILLE'S  CROSS,...  157 

LINES  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  AUTHOR'S  MOTHER  164 

O!  TELL  ME  NOT         ...                ...  ...  166 

HAMSTERLEY...                ...                ...  ...  167 

THE  LITTLE  Bow  OF  BLUE              ...  ...  177 

TOM  JONES  ...                ...                ...  ...  179 

EVANGELINE  . . .                ...                ...  ...  182 

SIT  DOWN  A  WEE           ...                ...  ...  184 

GOUGH'S  PERORATION  ON  WATER     ...  ...  186 

THE  REFORMED  DRUNKARD'S  ADDRESS  ...  188 

THE  MONARCH  ALCOHOL                  ...  ...  191 

STRIKE          ...                ...                ...  ...  194 


GEO.  NEASHAM,  PRINTER  AND  PUBLISHER,  DURHAM. 


